


Up Against Your Will

by TristansGirl



Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: M/M, Parallel Universes, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-04
Updated: 2011-06-03
Packaged: 2017-10-20 02:45:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 19
Words: 63,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/207941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TristansGirl/pseuds/TristansGirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stepping into a world so different from their own, Frank and Gerard struggle to survive</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> You guys remember the show Sliders? Same essential premise. Imagine a parallel world where Hitler's ideas of the the master race had been introduced and embraced some fifty years before he even came along. Also: I'm from Vegas, I don't even what woods are and I've never been to Yonkers. Details are probably incorrect. Title comes from an Echo and the Bunnymnen song.

The world can turn on a dime. Gerard was familiar with this saying; he felt that he understood it. He even fancied that he’d experienced it a time or two.

But he’d been wrong. What he’d always taken for lightning quick, life-changing moments were actually as slow and tedious as dripping molasses in comparison to what was about to happen.

And when he would think back on it, which he would do, quite often and bitterly, he would always remember that the day the world had turned on a dime had been a beautiful, sunshine-filled day.

One minute, he and Frank were walking together, taking a break from a photo shoot that was taking place in the woods outside of Yonkers. The next, there was a light, bright and all-encompassing, and then movement, felt deep within the body, as if things were shifting, rearranging . . .

And then, just as quickly as it began, it was over. It was over and everything was back to normal.

Except that they were no longer in the same woods.

Oh, they looked the same - the same trees in the same places. But they didn’t feel the same. And for a man like Gerard, who had long ago learned to trust his instincts, that was enough.

Repressing a shudder he turned to see that Frank was staring at him with wide-eyed amazement.

“Oh my God. Did you feel that? What was that?”

Gerard shook his head and muttered that he didn’t know. He wasn’t ready to share his feeling. At least not yet.

Frank stuffed his hands in his pockets, bouncing up and down and looking for all the world like an excited kid. “Dude, that was bizarre,” he said. “You think everyone else felt it?”

“I don’t know, but I think we should get back. Now.”

The urgency in Gerard’s voice got through to Frank, sobering him. “Yeah, ok. Fine.”

They walked back quickly, retracing their steps to the clearing where the photo shoot was taking place only to find it empty. Completely and utterly empty.

Frank whirled on Gerard, his face contorted in anger. “They left us! How could they fucking leave us?”

Gerard looked around the clearing, noticing that there were no tracks on the ground of any kind, nothing to indicate that lots of people and equipment had recently been here. “I don’t think that’s what happened here, Frank.”

“Well, then what? You think we’re in the wrong place? You think we’re lost?”

Gerard shook his head, not daring to voice what was currently dancing around in his brain. He knew this was the same clearing, and yet he knew it wasn’t. And it didn’t make sense. None of it did. And the more he tried to think about it, the more uneasy he became.

Frank exhaled noisily and walked a short distance away, pulling his cell phone out of his pocket as he moved. “Doesn’t work,” he muttered a few seconds later. “I’m not getting any bars at all.”

Gerard took out his own phone and, opening it up, looked at the screen. “I’m not either.”

“All right, so what do we do?” Frank asked.

Gerard stuffed his phone back in his jeans pocket. “We aren’t too far from the city. I think we should just hoof it back.”

Frank reluctantly agreed, and although the thought of walking didn’t sound appealing it certainly beat being stranded in the woods.

As they soon found out, ‘not far from the city’ means something entirely different when you’re traveling by foot than when you’re traveling by car. By the time they stepped into the city proper, feet dragging heavily on concrete sidewalks, both men were exhausted, their legs sore and cramping.

“Hey, Gee,” Frank said as they wandered past yet another warehouse in what appeared to be an industrial part of the city.

“Yeah?”

“I’m getting a really weird vibe from this place.”

Gerard nodded. “Me too. This whole thing is so twilight zone.”

“And the fucking cell still doesn’t work,” Frank said as he took his phone out of his pocket yet again. Gerard had lost track of the number of times Frank had checked it. Frank mumbled a few choice obscenities before slipping the phone back in his pocket and looking to the side. “Do you think we should try to get inside one of these places?”

“Naw, look. There’s a truck stop just up the road.”

“Yeah, but dude, we’re wearing makeup from the shoot.”

Smiling, Gerard said, “You can’t really tell. Besides, how bad can it be? We’ll be in. We’ll make a call. We’ll be out.”

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

The truck stop was busier than either of them had expected. And while there were a few women milling around inside the convenience store/restaurant, most of the people inside were men. And every single one of them was staring at them openly as they walked by. The hostility in the air was thick, almost palpable, and for a moment Gerard was tempted to turn around and walk right back out.

He shoved the feeling down and forced himself to continue in with his head held high. He was proud to see that Frank was doing the same.

They made their way over to the counter where a tall, blond man was standing behind the register.

“Hey, buddy. We were wondering if we could use your phone?” Frank asked.

The man frowned and tilted his head to the side. “What did you say to me?”

Frank scrunched his own brow in an unconscious imitation of him. “Um . . . your phone? We’re stranded and our cell phones don’t seem to work.”

“You have a lot of nerve talking to me like that, mongrel.”

Both Gerard and Frank stared at the man like wide-eyed, gaping fish, so shocked at what they’d heard that for several seconds neither could speak.

“I . . . what?” Frank finally managed to ask, and even those two simple words seemed to catch in his throat.

“Where the hell is your master?”

“What the fuck are you talking about, man?”

Gerard held out a hand, placing it on Frank’s chest as he took a step backward. The strange vibe he’d been getting since the incident in the woods had been replaced by a vibe that was practically screaming out danger. He realized now that coming in here was a mistake. “Frank, let’s just go.”

“No! Did you hear what he called me?”

Gerard sighed and prepared himself to reason with his friend. Frank never did take too well to being insulted. Gerard figured it had something to do with all those years of being pushed around at school. Just as he was about to say something calming, he noticed that three or four other men had started to make their way over to them

He placed his hand on Frank’s arm and squeezed as hard as he could. “Let’s. Just. Go.”

Frank’s eyes traveled from the hand on his arm to the place where Gerard was currently staring. And although he read the danger too, he wasn’t convinced that they couldn’t handle it.

“These mongrels giving you trouble, Jack?” one of the men asked. “They got a little taste of freedom and now they’re all mouthy?”

There was that word again - mongrels. Gerard had been called a lot of nasty things in his life - faggot being the primary one. But never had he been called a mongrel. He couldn’t even begin to guess what it meant. Nor did he want to know - in this case, he truly felt that ignorance might be bliss.

“We can take them,” Frank whispered to Gerard.

Gerard shook his head and completely ignored Frank, choosing to address the men surrounding them instead. “We’re leaving now. We’re sorry if we disturbed you.”

Still holding onto Frank’s arm like a vice, Gerard started to maneuver them back; toward the exit, toward safety.

They had only made it a few steps when they saw two uniformed men approaching them, identical scowls adorning their faces.

“Is there a problem here?” one of them asked.

Gerard stilled at the sound of the voice. The newcomers were obviously police officers and yet he didn’t feel comforted by that fact at all. If anything, he felt that the level of danger in the place had suddenly skyrocketed.

The man behind the counter piped up. “Yeah, these two waltz in here, talking and acting like free men. Never seen anything so disrespectful.”

Frank and Gerard looked at each other, both mouthing the words free men as a question.

The taller of the two officers walked in front of them, focusing his attention on Gerard. “Right. Let me see your number.”

“My number? You mean my driver’s license?”

“Your identification number.”

“I don’t . . . ” Gerard turned toward Frank, looking to him for help, but Frank looked as helpless and lost as he felt.

Hoping that he was being asked for his driver’s license after all, he had pulled out his wallet and had started to flip it open when the cop reached forward and grabbed his arm, simultaneously pushing up the sleeve of his jacket and his shirt.

He turned toward his partner. “There’s no number here.”

Gerard jerked his arm back, pulling it in tight to his body. “What the hell are you doing?”

The cop ignored him. “Check the other one.”

And before either one of them could protest further, the other cop had gotten a hold of Frank’s arm and was pushing his sleeve up as well.

“Hey,” Frank yelled as he pulled away.

“No number here either,” the police officer said, sounding both surprised and rattled.

“I don’t know what’s going on here,” his partner said. “But you’re coming with us.”

“What? Why?” Gerard asked.

“You show some respect when you talk to me, mongrel,” the cop growled as he pointed a finger at Gerard’s face.

“Woah, calm down, I . . . ”

He never got to finish that sentence. His chest hit the floor and his arms were forced behind his back before his mind could really register what was happening.

A moment later he felt the cool metal of handcuffs encircling his wrists.

He lifted his head slightly, just enough to see that Frank was in the same position right next to him, his own cuffs being locked in place.

“Frank?” he asked, perfectly aware that he sounded quite a bit like a lost, little boy.

Frank grimaced and gave his head a slight shake. “I don’t know, dude. I think we’re fucked.”


	2. Chapter 2

Being arrested, Gerard decided, sucked.

From the full body cavity search to the urine and blood samples to the fingerprinting and mug shots, every part of the process seemed designed to humiliate and demean.

More than once he’d been tempted to use the rock star card. To say, ‘don’t you know who I am?’ and put an end to the insanity. But he’d sworn to himself long ago that he would never stoop to that. Instead, he clamped his mouth shut and endured the poking and prodding, the shoves and names as stoically as he could.

Besides, he knew that they wouldn’t be here too much longer. He’d get his one phone call, call their lawyer and the whole experience would become nothing more than an unpleasant memory.  
Unless they decided to come back and sue every single one of these assholes – a possibility that was becoming more and more likely with each passing second.

Finally, when it seemed it would never end, he was taken to what he assumed was a holding cell. As the metal door clanged shut in front of him, he felt his stomach churn and for a brief moment he was sure he would vomit what little he’d had for breakfast.

He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, exhaling a shuddering breath. He did this until he felt his heart rate slow and the sick feelings in the pit of his stomach subside. Only then did he open his eyes to properly take in his surroundings.

Not that there was much to see. The entire jail cell couldn’t have been more than fifty square feet. There was one toilet in the corner, one sink next to that and two low-lying bunks against the far wall. And all of painted a sterile white that seemed better suited to a mental hospital than to a prison. He looked down the length of his body at the white pantsuit he’d been forced to put on and thought that if anything, they were consistent. Boring, but consistent.

With a shaky sigh, he made his way to one of the bunks and sat down on it heavily. He stayed like that, silent and still, for a long time while his emotions battled against each other for dominance. He was angry, righteously angry, and that was good. The anger felt right and it made him feel strong. And it was so much better than the fear. The problem was that the fear was lurking just below the surface, waiting to rise up and overwhelm him, turning him weak and helpless.

The sound of the door opening jarred him from his thoughts and his body stiffened as he instinctively tried to prepare for the next ordeal.

Relief drained away the tension when he saw that it was Frank that was stumbling through the door. He jumped to his feet and hurried over to him, placing his hands on Frank’s arms and peering intently into his face. “Are you ok?”

Frank nodded as he patted at Gerard’s face. “Are you?”

Before Gerard could answer, three other men entered the cell. Two of them were wearing black and silver uniforms similar to the ones that their arresting officers had worn while the third wore something that looked a little more polished, more professional.

Gerard guessed that this third man, the one standing in the middle, was the boss.

Watching these men, with their disdainful expressions and their cold eyes, Gerard found that his anger was coming back. He embraced it, welcomed it as it consumed the fear. “What the hell is going on here?” he asked.

The man on the left tilted his head toward him and said, “Shut up.”

“No,” Gerard said, taking a step forward and letting the heat of the anger control him. “You can’t just keep us here for no reason. Do you have any idea who we are?” The words surprised him even as they tumbled out of his mouth. Apparently, he was going to play the famous rock star card after all.

“Gerard, just sit down, ok?” Frank said quietly, effectively reversing their roles from earlier that day.

Gerard stopped and shot him a questioning look but Frank merely shook his head, silently telling him that now was not the time.

“Frank Iero and Gerard Way,” the man in the middle began. “Can you two possibly explain to me why your names don’t show up in the registration database, why you have no registration numbers and no tracking chips?”

It was Frank who answered for them, Frank who was suddenly so eerily calm. “I’m sorry, but we don’t know what any of that means.”

“Why is it that you have no identification?”

“You have our driver’s licenses, our wallets,” Gerard said. “What more do you need?”

All three men looked at him as if they were speaking another language. Finally the man in the middle spoke again. “The way I see it you either escaped from your masters and managed to get rid of the numbers and the chips, or you’re freeborns. What doesn’t make any sense is why you would walk into a truck stop and purposefully engage in speaking with free men.” He paused. “Unless...this is part of a greater plan? A rebellion brewing, perhaps?”

Frank and Gerard stared at each other, not believing what they were hearing.

It was Frank who spoke first. “Is this some kind of joke? I mean, are we being punk’d or something?”

Gerard would have laughed if not for the venomous looks they were now receiving from the guards.   
“Everything will be a hundred times easier for you if you just answer our questions honestly.”

“We can tell you everything that happened,” Frank said.

“The truth?”

“Yeah, of course. We’ve been trying to tell you this whole time.”

“So tell me.”

And they did. Between Frank and Gerard, they alternated in telling the story, from the moment that they had taken the walk in the woods to the moment that they were handcuffed and thrown into the police cars at the truck stop.

When it was over, they sat back, quietly waiting for the men’s reactions, for the apology that would surely come.

“This is your story? This is what you wish to tell me? Your explanation for your behavior in the truck stop?”

“It’s the truth, man,” Frank said. “You wanted the truth.”

The man in the middle grew quiet, brow drawn as if he were deep in thought. “Interesting story,” he said at last. Then, with a minimal tilt of the head, he gestured to Frank.

“But enough of the bullshit. Let’s start with him.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

In comparison to the cell, this new room was larger but dingy, the walls painted a gray-green color that reminded Frank of death and sickness and stained with something that he preferred not to even think about. It was empty, for the most part. Empty except for the medieval torture device that masqueraded as a chair right in its center.

Frank’s heart began to beat faster at the sight of it, dancing just on the edge of panic. And when the two guards began to move him toward it, he tipped over into full blow panic, and began to struggle against them.

A solid punch to the kidney effectively stopped the any resistance however, and for several moments Frank’s world consisted only of the agony in his side and trying to breathe through it and not throw up.

By the time the pain had dulled to a manageable ache, he found that he was strapped down to the chair, shirtless, while the two guards attached electrodes to various parts of his body. Instinct told him to struggle although he knew well and good it would be useless. The leather straps across his body were too tight. He wasn’t going anywhere.

He forced his body to still and asked, “What the hell is this?”

One of the men looked at him smugly. “It’s called an interrogation.”

“But we already told you everything.”

Oh God, was that his voice, sounding so desperate?

The man that had spoken stepped over to him, so close that Frank could smell what he’d had for lunch on his breath. “First of all, I am your superior and you will address me as ‘Sir’. Understand?”

Frank drew back as far as the chair and straps allowed. “What? You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

What happened next was a blur. One second the man was glaring down at Frank, the next he was punching him across the face, causing his head to whip to the side. Hard enough that he bit the inside of his cheek and drew blood.

A moment later Frank felt the man’s fingers dig into his hair and pull sharply so that his head was forced straight back toward the ceiling.

“I said, do you understand?”

The bangs dropping down into his eyes curtained off most of the man’s face, but Frank could easily read the hatred there. “I understand that you’re a fucking dick.”

That earned him another punch across the face, then another. By the time the fourth one came around, Frank was wishing he’d just kept his big mouth shut.

“That’s enough,” he could hear one of the other men saying; the one he had come to think of as the general. “We don’t want him unconscious before we even start the questioning.”

“Did you hear what this mongrel bitch called me, Sir?”

“Watch the language, Nelson. Remember we’re here for a reason. And you can deal with him later.”

Frank’s head was yanked back up, so harshly that the blood that had started dribbling down his chin was forced down his throat. He swallowed, grimacing at the bitter, tangy taste.

“The machine you are wired to will supply an electric shock to a variety of places on your body. Here’s how this will work - I will ask a question and you will answer it. If you do not answer it - you will receive a shock. If you do not answer it to my satisfaction - you will receive a shock. Do you understand?”

“Wait a minute!” Frank yelled as began to struggle all over again. “You can’t do this! This is America, you can’t do this!”

The man walked over to a control panel at the other end of the room and smiled patiently at him, like a parent humoring a child. And on this man’s face, it became the most chilling thing Frank had ever seen. “You’re a mongrel. A dark-hair. I can do anything I want to you. Now…why is it that you have no identification number?”

God, the first question. Only the first question and he couldn’t even answer that. He eyed the man’s hand as it hovered over dials and switches and prayed fervently that this was all a bad dream. A horrible dream that should have been long since over.

“Well?”

No dream, then. Reality.

He hung his head and closed his eyes. Like a man asking for a blindfold before the firing squad, he had to hide from what he knew was coming. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Gerard walked around the perimeter of the small cell, trying to focus his attention on counting steps rather than allowing his very vivid imagination to roam free.

This time around he managed to count as high as 39 before his traitorous mind decided to bombard him with yet another image of what was happening to Frank.

A moment later he was chastising himself for being so fooling. Frank was probably fine. This was still America for Christ’s sake. This was Yonkers, New York. He was pretty damn sure that Yonkers hadn’t turned into some fascist state overnight. Frank was probably in an interrogation room, on the phone with their lawyer right now.

Logic dictated that that scenario was right. So why couldn’t he shake the feeling that something horrible was happening his friend? Why couldn’t he shake the feeling that they had somehow both tumbled into hell?

He ran a hand through his hair and cursed his over-active mind. What he needed to do now was to walk, count steps, anything to keep his mind preoccupied and off of what was happening beyond these four walls.

He got as far as step number three when the door opened and the two guards from earlier entered, dragging Frank between them as if he were nothing more than a life-size rag doll.

“Thought we’d give you your friend back,” one of them said just a moment before they hauled Frank up and pushed him toward Gerard.

Gerard rushed forward, catching Frank just before he hit the ground. Cradling him close to his own body, he looked up at the two men and scowled. “What did you do to him?”

“Let’s just say we didn’t like his answers to our questions.”

Rendered speechless by the cold comment, Gerard could only stare up at the men.

One of them smirked at him, the one that had been a little too handsy during the booking process. “You better think about what you’re going to say when it’s your turn, bitch.”

Gerard just glared at them as they both exploded into laughter and walked back out the door.

“Fuckers,” he whispered softly before shaking his head and dismissing them from his thoughts. He had more important things to worry about – the groaning bundle in his arms being the top priority.

“Gee?”

Gerard winced at the sound of his friend’s voice. Frank sounded so weak, so tired. And Frank was never tired. Unless he was sick, he had the energy of ten men. To hear him like this frightened Gerard more than anything else had so far.

“Yeah, Frank?”

“Get me off the fucking floor, huh?”

Now that sounded more like Frank. With effort, Gerard heaved them both up until they were vertical and stumbling over to one of the bunks. Laying Frank on it as gently as he could, he kneeled down on the floor beside him and took his first good look at him since he’d been brought back.

He took in the bruises on the face, the dried blood under his nose and on his chin. He took in the broad marks on his forearms, on his chest. Bruises? Had Frank been strapped down? God, he didn’t know, didn’t want to know.

He bent down and ran his fingers through Frank’s hair. Frank was sweating, his hair drenched, although his body was shivering. “Are you cold?” he asked. “There’s a blanket on the other bunk.”

“No, not cold. Just can’t seem to stop...shaking..."

“Frank, what happened? What did they do to you?”

Lips twitching up slightly in a pale imitation of a smile, Frank said, “Interrogation is the new torture.”

Gerard shut his eyes and turned his face away. He’d been right. The vile scenarios his mind had conjured up had been right. “Oh, God,” he muttered. “Oh, God.”

“It’s ok. I’m ok.”

Opening his eyes, he turned back toward Frank. “No, you’re not! Look at you, they tortured you! They fucking tortured you!”

“Gee,” Frank said softly. “I’m scared...

“I...”

“Not for me. For you.”

“Why me?”

“If they come for you, they’re gonna hurt you.”

Gerard blinked back against the sudden tightness behind his eyes. Now was not the time to cry. He had to be strong. For Frank. For both of them. “Hey, don’t worry about me. I mean, we’re from Jersey, right? These New York pussies don’t know tough.”

“I wasn’t so tough. I told myself I was gonna be, but when it started...”

“Frank...”

“I would have given them their damn answers if I’d have known what the hell they were talking about. I almost made shit up anyway, just to make it stop.”

Gerard could think of nothing to say to that. There were no words that could possibly make this better, no words that could undo the damage that had been done.

He placed a gentle kiss on Frank’s forehead and resumed stroking his hair. “You should get some sleep, ok?”

Frank stared up at Gerard for a long moment before nodding and closing his eyes. The touch against his skin felt good, soothing and calming and before he knew it he was asleep.

Watching intently, Gerard knew the moment that Frank surrendered to sleep. His body relaxed, his breathing evened out and his face went smooth. His body still shivered however, and although Gerard knew that Frank needed a blanket, he couldn’t seem to make himself get up. So he stayed, even though he knew that Frank couldn’t feel his touch or his presence, he stayed next to him, his fingers continually brushing through sweat-drenched strands of hair.

That’s how they found him when they came for him, less than an hour later.


	3. Chapter 3

Gerard lay curled up on his bunk, hollow eyes staring at the metal door to their cell, the one that Frank had been pulled through just minutes before.

He had barely even tried to stop them this time, had only uttered the most meager of protests. In truth, he’d done little more than watch as the guards had pulled Frank from his bunk and dragged him away. But he and Frank had both learned quickly enough that protesting was useless, pleading was useless, fighting was useless. All of it was ignored, and if not ignored, then punished.

There was nothing to do but wait until they brought Frank back. He could help him then; he could soothe away the pain, hold him tight, and sing him to sleep. The same things that Frank did for him when it was his turn to be interrogated.

He snorted at his own use of the word.

Interrogated.

He found it funny, in a twisted sort of way, how quickly he had taken to calling it that, as if that name somehow made it more bearable.

But it was torture, pure and simple. And it was a hundred times more brutal and malicious and terrible than in any movie or book.

He continued to stare at the door, forcing his mind to go blank. He didn’t want to think about the torture sessions, or the lack of food or the incessant bright lights that that made sleep almost impossible.

He didn’t want to think about why he had gone for a walk in the woods and had ended up in his own fucked up version of the twilight zone.

He didn’t want to think at all.

So he let his mind drift, never allowing it to latch on to any one thought.

He was just seconds away from a total disconnect when the door to the cell began to open. He had no way of knowing how long Frank had been gone, his watch had been taken along with everything else, but he was sure that his session couldn’t be over already.

He bit back a groan as he propped his sore body up on one elbow, preparing to get up and help Frank when needed.

But it wasn’t Frank that came through the door.

It was a guard, the one he’d come to know as Silas Beecher.

And he was all alone.

Of all the people that they’d encountered so far, Gerard hated this man the most. There was something about the way he looked at him, like a lion measuring up his prey that always had Gerard’s nerves skittering on edge when he was near.

“What are you doing here, Beecher?” he asked.

“Uh uh. You’re forgetting something, Gerard.”

Gerard rolled his eyes, but said what was expected despite how bitter it tasted on his tongue.   
“Sir.”

“Better,” Beecher said. “Apparently you can be taught.”

“Is there something you want? Sir?” he asked, repeating the hated word while making sure it was drenched in sarcasm.

“As a matter of fact, there is,” Beecher said as he made his way to the bunk, surprising Gerard by sitting down on the edge of it. He placed a hand on Gerard’s shoulder and pushed down until he had no choice but to fall back onto the mattress. “Relax, Gerard.”

Gerard froze, body taut and tense, while his mind raced with questions. Was this a private interrogation session? Was Beecher here to hurt him? Kill him? Or the last possibility, the one that was making his stomach churn so badly he couldn’t even name it?

When Beecher leaned down and ran a hand down Gerard’s cheek, it took every ounce of willpower he had not to push the hand away in disgust.

“I can’t figure out what there is about you,” Beecher said, sounding almost awed. “You got them eyelashes, and those lips. Pretty – like a girl.”

The hand ran down Gerard’s cheek again, but moved lower this time, not stopping until it was resting against his neck. Cold and rough, it felt like a dead thing against his skin.

“I’m not a girl,” Gerard spat out.

Beecher laughed. “No, you’re not, are you? But still, there’s something about you. Something soft.” The hand inched down to Gerard’s chest where it rested over his heart. “I get the feeling that it’d be real fun to break you.”

Oh no. No, no.

Gerard shook his head, unaware that he had spoken the words aloud, and pushed his body up, his only thought to get away from this man.

But before he could get far, Beecher placed both hands on Gerard’s upper arms and squeezed, pressing down so that Gerard’s body was forced back down to the mattress. Smirking, he leaned down until his lips were only inches away from Gerard’s.

“Don’t,” Gerard said, voice strangled, turning his head away.

Cold fingers gripped his chin, forcing his head back to center.

“Keep still, bitch.”

“You can’t do this. You can’t.” With a flick of his eyes, Gerard indicated the camera in the corner, ever present, ever vigilant. For once he was glad for it.

Beecher’s gaze shifted to it before his eyes came back to Gerard. “Oh, that. Yeah, I turned it off.”

Gerard’s eyes grew wide. That meant that he had planned this all along. That meant that no one was going to see this, no one would stop it.

A surge of adrenaline kicked in then, born out of equal parts dread and anger. There was no way, no way in hell, that he was just going to lie here and let this man rape him. It didn’t matter that he was weak and hurting, he would fight with all he had as long as he could.

He began to struggle, kicking and flailing like a madman. But Beecher countered his every move. Every time he managed to get a hand free, Beecher would pin it back down. Every time he managed to rise up from the bunk, Beecher was right there to slam his body back down.

And yet he didn’t stop. He continued to lash out blindly, desperately, right up until Beecher’s hand curled into a fist and slammed into the side of his face. His vision went dark, like a TV set suddenly being switched off, and he just lay there, too stunned to move; too stunned to do anything but blink and suck in much needed air.

As if filtered through a conch shell, he could hear Beecher’s voice, distorted and distant saying, “I like a little fight, but I don’t have all day.”

And suddenly the hands were back, except this time they were on the waistband of his pants, and they were grabbing, tugging and his only thought was that this was going to happen and there was nothing he could do about it. From this moment on he would be a victim, his life shredded and destroyed and nothing would ever be the same.

“Stop,” he murmured, his own hands coming up to push at Beecher’s chest ineffectually. “Stop. Please.”

It was the sound of the door opening, not Gerard’s pleas, that caused Beecher to quickly pull away.

Thank God. Thank God.

Gerard twisted onto his side, his arms hugging his stomach in a belated gesture of protection. He didn’t know who was coming through the door and he didn’t care – he was about two seconds away from kissing the feet of whomever had just come to his rescue.

He lifted his head, narrowing his gaze to focus on the people now entering the cell. Two of them were guards. The third, sagging between then, was Frank.

In that instant, Gerard forgot all about what had happened with Beecher; his only concern now was Frank and what had been done to him. He was barely even aware that one of the guards was questioning Beecher as to why he was in the cell. He didn’t bother listening to Beecher’s bullshit response.

He pushed himself up so that he was sitting, preparing himself to fully stand so that he could catch Frank before the guards could dump him on the ground. It was standard operating procedure, to treat them like discarded garbage once they’d been brought back here. But this time the guards walked Frank over to his bunk and laid him down on it with care.

For some reason, this gentleness worried Gerard more than the pushes and shoves, and as he stood he all but ran to Frank’s bunk, dropping down to his knees next to it.

He grasped Frank’s hand in one of his own, his other hand already carding through Frank’s hair.

“Frank?”

Frank turned to him, eyes blank and unfocused.

“Now what did you to him?” Gerard asked the guards, forgetting, in his anger, to address them as he’d been instructed.

The guard he knew as Nelson answered. “We saved his worthless life. You should be thanking us on your knees, Way.”

“What?”

Nelson ignored him, turning instead to Beecher. “You done with your little playtime, Beecher?” he asked. “You going to go turn that surveillance camera back on?”

Beecher snarled but said nothing, pushing past them all and marching out the door.

“The doctor should be here in a couple of hours to check you out, Iero.”

“Peachy, sir,” Frank mumbled.

“Good, Iero. Good. You’re a quick study for a mongrel.”

Gerard bristled at that, but neither he nor Frank responded to the derogatory comment.

Once the guards had left, Gerard turned his full attention back to Frank. Worry creased his features as he took in his friend’s condition.

Something bad had happened during the session. Frank looked worse than ever before; his face was paper white, his skin clammy to the touch, his breathing uneven and shallow.

“What happened?”

Frank gave a small shrug. “I’m not sure,” he said. His voice sounded breathy and weak, as if it were an effort to talk. “They started in, they got to the second question, and I started to hyperventilate. My heart rate . . . I don’t know. I guess it went through the roof . . .”

Gerard squeezed Frank’s hand tight, cradling it up to his own chest. “Well, maybe you shouldn’t talk. You should, you know . . . save your strength.”

“At least it got me out of the torture. Like a free pass.”

“Don’t joke! How can you joke?”

“Gee, if I don’t joke, I’ll lose it,” Frank said, voice cracking. “Hell, I’m already losing it.”

“But this isn’t funny. You could have died.”

Frank’s eyes drilled directly into his own. “But I didn’t. You know me. My body freaks out and then I’m fine two days later.”

“But this . . .”

“Drop it, Gerard. I don’t want to talk about it.”

The last thing Gerard wanted to do was drop it. It was his nature to talk things out, his inborn way of dealing with the world around him. But it wasn’t Frank’s way. Frank had asked him to leave it, so he clamped his mouth shut tight and tried not to think about how close he might have come to losing one of his best friends.

“Do you think we’re going to die here?” Frank asked, so unexpectedly that Gerard jumped.

“What? No.” Gerard shook his head frantically. “No, we’re not. We’re gonna get out of here.

We’re going to go back to our normal lives and we’re going to forget about this. We’re gonna forget this ever fucking happened.”

Frank closed his eyes and pulled his hand out of Gerard’s, curling away so that his back was to him. “Right, Gerard. Of course we are.”

“We are,” Gerard whispered, more for himself than for Frank. He fiercely brushed away the lone tear sliding down his face. “We are.”


	4. Chapter 4

Captain Arthur Nelligan sat alone in the surveillance room, leaning against his chair and watching the monitor for cell number three with interest.

As warden for the city’s sole prison for dark-haired’s, he had seen a lot of things in his twelve year tenure, but he had never seen anything like this.

Undocumented dark haired people didn’t just show up wandering the streets and asking to use a telephone. It just didn’t happen. Not with the amount of controls that the government had in place. From their strictly monitored breeding, to the tracking chip inserted underneath their skin at birth, to the inking of their registration number at the age of fifteen, dark-haireds were watched from cradle to the grave.

And yet, here were Way and Iero, making a mockery of their well-honed system.

Nelligan glanced down at his watch, noting that only five minutes remained until his appointed meeting time with the mayor. He found it interesting that the man chose to travel here every day for an update on this situation instead of sending an aide or even speaking via telephone.

He had a suspicion, one that he had yet to voice to anyone, that the mayor’s interest had less to do with solving this puzzling riddle than with one of the young men in the cell.

He turned his attention back to the screen, watching as Way crawled into Iero’s bunk and wrapped his arm around him, pulling him close against his chest so that their bodies almost melded together.

He pondered flipping on the switch that would provide him with sound to go with the visual, but decided not to bother. He and his men had listened to enough of their conversation to know that they weren’t going to reveal the answer to their mystery. In truth, Way and Iero seemed just as confused, if not more so, about their undocumented status than anyone else.

A brisk knock at the door signaled the mayor’s arrival. As usual, the man arrived with a small contingent of people in tow and as usual, he left them all waiting outside the surveillance room while he spoke with Nelligan alone.

Nelligan held out his hand in greeting. “Mr. Mayor.”

The mayor, a man by the name of Jack Sheridan, grinned good-naturedly before grasping the proffered hand. “Arthur we’ve known each other for five years. When are you going to call me Jack?”

Nelligan returned the grin. “Maybe when you’re no longer the head of the city, Mr. Mayor.”

They shared a laugh at the familiar joke before taking a seat in front of the wall of monitors.

Casually, as if he were speaking about the weather, Sheridan asked, “Anything new today?”

Nelligan, however, knew better. He knew that the news he had to deliver would not be welcome. “We had a problem with Iero.”

Sheridan’s entire demeanor changed in an instant. Gone was the casual interest. Frowning, he asked, “What sort of problem?”

“He started to hyperventilate and his heart rate went through the roof. We stopped the questioning immediately of course and brought the doctor in. It seems he had a panic attack, a fairly severe one brought on by stress.”

“I assume you did not continue the interrogation afterward.”

“Of course not, Jack. As you’re aware, Iero has a fairly delicate constitution. We would have risked serious damage to him if we’d continued. In fact we brought the doctor in a little later to ensure that everything was all right.”

Sheridan chewed on his lip, thinking. “I see,” he said, turning back to the screen. “Well, we’ll have to stop all interrogation for him immediately.”

Nelligan had suspected as much. Any fool could see that Jack had a soft spot for Iero. A very large soft spot.

“And the other one?” he asked. “Way? Do we continue interrogating him?”

“What’s your opinion, Arthur?”

“It’s been four days and we still have no true answers as to why they’re completely undocumented. Even when they try to answer the questions, they’re not supplying answers that make any sense, as if they’re only telling us what they think we want to hear.”

“Your conclusion, then?”

“Honestly?” he asked, although he knew that Jack wouldn’t want anything else.

“Always.”

“I believe that they believe that what they’re saying is the truth.”

“That they were walking through the woods, minding their own business and suddenly ended up here? In a completely different world?” Sheridan asked.

“I’m not saying that I believe it. Just that they do.”

“You don’t feel that they’re dangerous? Insurgents?”

“No, Jack. I don’t. I don’t know what they are, but rebels plotting something . . . no.”

“No, I don’t either.”

Nelligan indicated the monitors with a tilt of the head. “Would you agree that there’s no reason to continue interrogating either one of them?”

“There seems to be no point to it, does there?” Before Nelligan could answer, Sheridan added, “The question is what to do with them now.”

“If I may, there’s a guard here that would like to take ownership of Way.”

“Really? Do you feel that’s wise?”

“It makes sense – he understands the situation, understands that this isn’t a normal slave, but one that will require more work, a firm hand. It’s also an excellent way for us to keep track of him.”

“And Iero?”

“I’m fairly certain there’d be someone else here who’d be willing to take him.”

“Probably,” Sheridan said. “But I think I’ll take him myself.”

It was all Nelligan could do to hold back a smile. So his suspicions had been correct. Sheridan did want the dark-hair. “And what if we’re wrong?” he asked, more to play the part of devil’s advocate than anything else. “What if he is part of some rebellion? What if he’s dangerous?”

“I’m well protected, Arthur. And what better place to watch him for any signs of insurgency than right under my nose?”

“You have a good point, Jack.”

“So we’re agreed?”

“We’re agreed.”

“Good,” Sheridan said, already standing and straightening his suit. “We can process them tomorrow; get them tagged and inked and ready. If everything goes well, we might even be able to keep this off of Washington’s radar after all. The last thing I need is for them to think that I can’t control dark-haireds in my own city.”

Nelligan followed suit. “We’ll have them ready by this same time tomorrow. I’d suggest sending them to training camp, but . . .” He let the sentence drift off, knowing that the mayor would understand. Training camps were for children, not adult men. They’d be ill-equipped to deal with these two.

Sheridan stood by the door, one hand on the doorknob. “One more thing – are the lights on constantly in the cells?”

“They keep the prisoners from sleeping well. It makes them easier to question.”

“Well, since there’s longer going to be any questioning, why don’t you turn them off? Let those two get a decent night’s sleep?”

A small smile crept up on Nelligan’s face as he answered that he would.

Maybe that soft spot was even larger than he had first imagined.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The cells were not designed with comfort in mind.

The combination of the unforgiving lights, the meager portions of food, the rock-hard bunks and the unending white were enough to drive most people over the edge. Or at the very least, drive them to a confession. But strangely enough, Frank didn’t mind any of these things too much. Maybe it was because they tended to remind him of his earlier days in the band – days when it was all about raw survival and the music and friendship and not much else.

It wasn’t so much that he missed those days, although he sometimes did, but that all of this just seemed to be a different spin on a familiar theme. Truth be told, he’d gotten to sleep under worse conditions, had eaten less and had been treated almost (although not quite) as badly.

So although he was frightened and bewildered and hurting in more places than he’d ever thought it possible to hurt – he still had little problem sleeping when he was tired or eating when food was brought.

Gerard, however, was another story altogether.

The man had barely eaten or slept since they’d been brought here. And while there was no way to know how long that actually was, Frank was fairly sure that it had to be at least three or four days.

He didn’t want to say it out loud, but he was worried for Gerard, even more so than for himself. Gerard could be very strong, but only up a point and then his defensive walls would begin to crumble and the self-destructive behavior would kick in. Frank wasn’t sure how that would translate in this fucked up situation, but he had a feeling that when Gerard did hit that point, that it would be both epic and disastrous.

“Frank.” Gerard’s voice came to him, whisper-soft. A moment later, Gerard’s hand was at the small of his back.

“Yeah,” he mumbled.

“Shove over a little, huh? You’re not that small.”

Frank smiled and slowly inched his way to the edge of the bunk. It dipped slightly due to the added weight and a second later he felt Gerard’s arm snake around his waist.

Frank snuggled against him, enjoying the solid weight of his friend’s chest against his back, his breath hot against his ear.

“Can you imagine if this ended up on someone’s blog?” he asked.

Gerard snorted. “The fans would go nuts.”

“It’d just be more ammunition for those stories they write.”

Gerard’s soft laugh sent vibrations running through Frank’s body, causing him to shiver slightly.

“How are you feeling?” Gerard asked after a moment.

The doctor had left them a while ago, given Frank a clean bill of health, and still Gerard kept asking the question over and over again. “Same as I felt ten minutes ago when you asked me.”

“Yeah, well, you scared the fuck out me, you ass. Give me a break. ”

Frank looked down at Gerard’s hand lying pale and limp against the mattress and gave it a tight squeeze to reassure him that yes, he was still here and that he was all right and that he would continue to be all right. “If it makes you feel any better, I scared the fuck out of myself. Who knew a panic attack could feel like that?

“Yeah, who knew?”

Taking a breath, Frank used the small shred of energy he had left to turn over. He gave Gerard’s face a long, slow look, taking in everything from the pale, smooth forehead to the slightly rounded chin. But what his eyes kept coming back to, over and over, was that ever-darkening bruise on the side of his face.

“Gee, are you gonna tell me what happened to your face?”

“My what?”

“Your face is swollen and there’s a bruise forming. And I know it wasn’t like that when I left.”

Gerard cheeks darkened to crimson but he held his gaze steady. “Beecher did it.”

There was a part of Frank that didn’t want to ask the next question, that was more than happy to let the subject drop and never bring it up again. That part of him didn’t want to know because knowing would hurt. But there was a larger part of him that knew he had to ask, had to know, no matter how many pieces it tore him into. “Gee. Did he . . . did he try to . . . ”

Hazel eyes nearly blazing with anger met his. “Try to what, Frank? Just spit it out.”

“It’s just that, I’ve seen the way he looks at you,” he said, carefully picking his words as he trod on unfamiliar ground. “The way he touches you. It doesn’t take a genius.”

And just like that the anger was gone, if it was even really there in the first place. Gerard turned his gaze downward so that Frank could see his eyelashes fluttering crazily against his skin. “He didn’t. I mean, he tried. But he didn’t. I fought him, managed to keep him off until they brought you in.”

Lifting his hand, Frank skimmed the edges of the bruise with his fingertips, thinking that nothing so ugly or brutal should ever be allowed to mar any part of Gerard’s body.

He dropped his hand so that it rested on the side of Gerard’s throat, feeling the pulse dance underneath his fingertips. “Does it hurt?” he asked.

The blush was still on Gerard’s cheeks, making him look disarmingly innocent. “A little,” he said as he shrugged.

“I want to kill him for doing that to you,” Frank said, and he meant it. He had never hated anyone with as much white-hot rage as he hated Silas Beecher at that moment.

Just as Gerard opened his mouth to reply, the lights in the cell went out, pitching them into utter darkness.

“Whoa. What the hell?” Frank wondered. He’d been subjected to bright light for so long that now the dark seemed blinding. He tried to shut his eyes against it, feeling foolish when he realized that that there was no difference between the room and what was beneath his eyelids.

“I don’t know. Do you think something’s wrong?”

“Yeah, maybe. But I’m sure they’ll bring them up in a few minutes.”

Frank could feel Gerard nodding his head in agreement, could still feel his pulse underneath his fingertips. It was a little fast now, as if he were excited.

Or frightened.

Without thinking about what he was doing, he moved closer to Gerard, pressing the side of his face against his friend’s chest. He ran his free hand up and down Gerard’s back, hoping to soothe, intending to comfort.

A small, soft moan told him that he was on the right track. He snuggled closer, refusing to dwell on how strange this all was, to be so close to another man in this shadowed darkness.

A moment later he felt Gerard’s hand against his hair, felt fingers tugging at the strands as they found purchase. Stranger still, that this didn’t feel awkward in the slightest.

“The dark is a blessing,” Gerard whispered.

“Yeah,” he said. He whispered too, for fear that anything louder would break whatever spell was being woven in the room.

“I’m so glad you’re here with me. Couldn’t do this alone.”

Frank placed a light kiss against Gerard’s chest, stifling the sudden urge to cry. “You’ll never have to.”

“No. And neither will you.”


	5. Chapter 5

The conference room was large, much too large for the amount of people in the room, Gerard thought as he took a look around.

Besides the four officious-looking men sitting across the long conference table from him and Frank, the only other occupants of the room were the four guards that stood at attention against the wall. Gerard was dismayed to see that one of those guards was none other than Silas Beecher.

He dropped his gaze to the floor to avoid looking him in the eye, a warm rush of shame rushing through him as he remembered being pinned down by his strong hands.

“Gerard Way. Frank Iero,” one of the men across from them began, causing Gerard to look up quickly. “Before we get started, let me make some introductions. My name is Captain Arthur Nelligan and I am the warden of this prison. The man sitting to my right is the assistant warden, Jeffrey Michaels. The man sitting to my left is the mayor of this city, Jack Sheridan. Next to him is his primary aide, Nicholas Krump.”

While Krump and Michaels merely nodded, the mayor smiled and politely said, “Frank. Gerard.”

Gerard shared a quick, confused look with Frank before they both muttered hello. That smile was the most civil gesture they’d received since they’d walked into the truck stop and neither one of them quite knew how to react to it.

“During the past few days,” Nelligan continued. “Mayor Sheridan and I have been discussing your very unique situation. As you’ve both been made aware - in this society, people such as yourselves, people with dark hair, are considered, well . . . inferior.”

Gerard stiffened in his seat. “Inferior?”

“Mentally and physically inferior. It was proven over a hundred years ago.”

“Jesus, that’s like Hitler and the master race,” Frank blurted out. “Do you have any idea how insane that sounds?”

Two of the guards stepped forward, already moving to tame Frank’s outburst, but Nelligan waved them back.

“It’s not insane. It’s proven scientific fact,” Krump said coolly.

“That’s bullsh-” Frank began.

“Regardless of what you believe,” Nelligan interrupted, “this is the situation as it stands now. You two are undocumented, and as far as we can tell, not owned by anyone – either by private citizen or the government. Now, we obviously can’t have you running around the city as you are.”

Gerard listened to the words with a sinking sense of revulsion and hopelessness. Up until this moment, he had honestly thought that this would turn out all right. Even during the worst of their time here, he had believed that this would all be resolved somehow and that they’d be allowed to go back home, to where the memory of this place would eventually rust and fade until it could no longer sting. “You could take us back to the woods and let us get back home. That would get rid of your problem,” he blurted out, his one last, desperate attempt at inserting a shred of sanity into the situation.

The mayor smiled at him, and while it wasn't cruel, it was condescending, as if he were smiling at a small child incapable of fully understanding. “That’s the problem, Gerard. We don’t, any of us, believe you. Parallel universes are not possible. And while the mystery of why you are running around free in my city hasn’t been solved, we feel it’s best to focus on a solution to the problem you represent.”

“We can’t keep you here,” Nelligan interjected. “This facility was never meant to hold someone long-term. But all of us feel that we have come to a suitable solution for everyone.”

Gerard stole another glance at Frank, trying to gauge his reaction to what was being said, but his friend’s eyes were blank, his face expressionless, and whatever he was feeling remained a mystery.

“We’ve decided to integrate you into our society; into households where you will be well-monitored.”

The mayor settled his gaze on Frank. “Frank, you will be coming with me to join my household staff.”

Frank sat very still save for the fingers that spasmodically clutched the hem of his shirt. “What about Gerard?” he asked in a quiet, hesitant voice.

“Gerard will be given to Mr. Silas Beecher. You should already be familiar with him. He’s one of your guards.”

Gerard suddenly lurched forward, gripping the table in front of him for support. “No,” he mouthed.

Frank, meanwhile, shot straight to his feet, his chair clattering to the ground behind him. “No! You can’t do that!”

“Settle down, Iero,” Nelligan warned.

“You can’t do that!” he shouted again, twisting away from the guards’ grasping hands. “Beecher tried to rape him!”

“That’s a serious allegation, Frank,” Sheridan said quietly.

"It's true. He came into the cell and tried to rape him. You can’t just give Gerard to him. He’ll hurt him!”

“Gerard? Is this true?”

Gerard straightened, took a deep, sustaining breath, and tried to ignore how mortified he was to have to admit this. “Yes,” he said. “He tried to.”

“Beecher? Anything to say?” Nelligan asked.

Beecher, who was busy righting Frank’s chair and helping to push him back into it, said, “He’s lying, sir. They’re both lying.”

Nelligan smiled, holding out his hands, palms up. “You see? My guard says that nothing happened.”

“Of course he’s going to say that! He’s not going to admit it,” Frank protested.

“Please, you can’t separate us. We’re all the other one has here,” Gerard said. He was vaguely aware that he was begging and vaguely aware that he didn’t give a flying fuck. “Please, Sir.”

Sheridan shook his head. “I’m sorry, Gerard, but these things have already been decided. Starting now, Frank belongs to me and you belong to Mr. Beecher. You will be taken back to your cell momentarily so that we may begin the process of integrating you into our society.”

“Process?” Frank asked. “What process?”

“Every slave needs a tracking chip and a registration number, Frank. Plus, I’m sure you would agree that you have a great deal to learn, or re-learn as the case may be, in a short amount of time.”

Once again, Gerard turned to Frank, this time seeking reassurance, strength, hope. He needed for Frank to give him one of his wry smiles, a wink or a nod to say _everything will be ok, this isn’t as awful as it seems, or we’re going to get through this._

But what he saw in his friend’s eyes was merely a reflection of what was in his own heart.

What he saw was fear, untainted and sharp. And that, perhaps, was the most terrible thing of all.


	6. Chapter 6

The world that Gerard found himself in was familiar enough, yet slightly different, as if a god with a wicked sense of humor had reached down from the sky and had altered everything by just the tiniest fraction. The clothing, the cars, the architecture – all just a bit askew, a bit _wrong_. It reminded Gerard of the Bizarro World from the old Superman comics. The perverse irony that his life had turned into a comic book did not escape him.

Leaning his forehead against the passenger window of Beecher’s car, Gerard watched the strangeness of the world go by, occasionally scratching lightly at the bandage on this arm. He’d had a panic attack of his own when they’d strapped him down and stabbed the tattoo needle in his skin over and over again, permanently imprinting their numbers onto his body, but now he barely noticed it save that it itched every so often.

In truth, most of his thoughts were centered on losing Frank. And although he stared out through the window at the passing city, what he was really seeing, like a videotape stuck in a loop, was his final moment with his friend.

Gerard had buried his face in the crook of Frank’s neck, fingers lost in his long hair, as they’d held onto each other like tragic lovers.

 _Don’t be scared, Gerard. We’ll find each other again. I promise. This isn’t how it ends._

Those had been Frank’s final words to him, whispered so earnestly against his ear, right before the guards had grabbed them and pulled them apart.

He repeated the words in his head, hoping to gain strength from them now. He would need that strength if he was going to stand up to Beecher. He’d decided, as he’d been manhandled into the car, that he wasn’t just going to spread his legs and allow Beecher to do whatever he wanted. He’d left the role of victim behind long ago. It hadn’t suited him then and it wouldn’t now.

So lost was he in these thoughts that he didn’t even notice that the car had stopped until Beecher had opened the door and was yanking him to his feet.

He took a moment to orient himself by taking in his surroundings. He saw that they stood in a driveway, in front of a house that somehow reminded him of his old home in New Jersey. He turned his head, shutting his eyes against the sudden onslaught of memories from what felt like a hundred lifetimes ago.

“Quit stalling, Way,” Beecher said as he grabbed his arm and pulled him forward. “This is home now. Home sweet home.”

Gerard snorted. This wasn’t home. This was nothing but another prison hidden behind a prettier façade.

They walked up the drive and into the house, where Gerard stood at the entrance to the messy living room, gazing disinterestedly at the furnishings while Beecher shut the door behind them.

“Now, I know it’s not -” Beecher began.

Gerard turned around, slow and deliberate. “No,” he said. It was only one word, and yet he was proud of himself for sounding so calm.

Beecher frowned, looking confused. “No, what?”

“No. I’m not your slave or your whore or whatever else you think you brought me here for. No.”

Gerard had prepared himself for Beecher’s anger, for shouts and insults and violence. What he got instead was the sight of Beecher breaking into a toothy grin. For some reason this unnerved him more than anything else Beecher could have done.

“No?” Beecher was saying, smile still in place. “What do you think you’re going to do instead? Find your little friend and go back to the woods? Go back to your safe, little, pretend world?”

Once again Gerard found himself feeling like prey in some nature show. He could feel what little confidence he’d manage to muster slipping by degrees. “Yeah, maybe.”

“Even if you managed to make it out the door, Way, you wouldn’t make it far. That locater imbedded in your arm can find you anywhere.”

“I’m not just gonna sit here and let you . . . “ he faltered, realizing that he couldn’t say the words out loud. “You don’t own me, Beecher.”

Beecher, who up until now had been leaning back against the door, took a few steps forward. “I like you, Way. I do. You’re so fucking pretty for a mongrel. I even like that little attitude of yours. ” He chuckled. “Like I told you before – I like a little fight.”

Gerard moved backward, matching Beecher step for step until he felt his foot collide with something solid. He turned his head to see he was up against the sofa. “What are you . . . ?”

“You say I don’t own you. I say I do. So what are we going to do about that?”

A pleading note crept into Gerard’s voice as he said, “You can just let me go.”

“I don’t think so.” And with that, Beecher lunged forward, grasping Gerard by the back of the neck and pulling him close.

Gerard twisted out of the grip, shoving Beecher’s arm away. “Don’t.”

“Come on, bitch. Fight me.”

Gerard barely had time to register the words when Beecher lunged forward again, this time getting a firmer hold on the back of his neck while pulling him down to the floor. He struggled to stay vertical, but Beecher had already hooked a leg behind his, throwing off Gerard’s balance completely.

He fell, landing on his back so hard that his teeth clacked together.

Recognizing how vulnerable he was, he moved to get up, but Beecher was faster, pinning him to the ground before he could make it very far.

“Let’s see what you’ve got, Way,” Beecher said, right before mashing his lips down to Gerard’s, all sharp teeth and slobbering spit.

Gerard tried to jerk his head away, but Beecher’s hands on each side of his head kept him immobile, so he did the only thing he could think of to do - he bit down as hard as he could on Beecher’s bottom lip.

Beecher drew back with a grunt, a hand at his mouth. When he pulled it away, Gerard could see blood speckled on his fingertips.

Serves you right, you fucking bastard.

“You fucking bit me!” Beecher growled, sounding honestly surprised.

And before Gerard could respond, Beecher punched him square across the mouth.

Gerard groaned as the sharp tang of his own blood filled his mouth, some of it sliding down his throat before he could spit it out.

“Stop fighting,” he heard Beecher saying. “Keep still.”

“No fucking way,” he gasped, reaching up and hitting Beecher in the eye with as much strength as he could muster. He knew it wasn’t much, he could feel his own weakness in his arm and hand. Too many days of torture, of not eating or sleeping well had taken their toll.

Nevertheless, the punch was enough to stun Beecher, and Gerard wasted no time in turning over and wriggling out from under him to get away.

He set his sights on the door, had just pushed himself to his feet, when he felt a hand wrap around his ankle and pull. He fell back down to the floor with a primal scream of rage and frustration.

So close, so fucking close.

He was turned over so that he was once again on his back, looking up at Beecher. He waited for the next strike, the next punch, but it never came. Instead, Beecher placed his hands on Gerard’s throat and began to squeeze.

Lungs deprived of oxygen, Gerard’s mouth opened wide as he tried to suck in air. He clawed at Beecher’s hands, trying to pry them off of his throat. When that didn’t work he went for Beecher’s face, desperation and fear fueling his frantic movements.

But Beecher remained out of his reach and it wasn’t long before Gerard could feel his tongue starting to loll from his mouth and his eyes bulging from the sockets.

He’d never once imagined that Beecher would actually kill him, but the dark motes dancing before his eyes and his vanishing strength told him that his body was dying. He had thought that he’d come to terms with death by writing the last album, he had thought that he’d be ready for it when it came, but he was so wrong. He wasn’t ready at all – he was fucking terrified and his last logical thought before his eyes rolled back in his head was that he didn’t want to go, not like this, not ever.

It was at that moment that Beecher finally withdrew his hands, letting him go.

Gerard turned to his side, taking in lungful after lungful of air while he clutched at his throat with both hands. There was no thought beyond getting more oxygen, nothing at all except breathing.

So lost was he in this simple act that he didn’t even realize that he was moving, that Beecher had a hand fisted into his hair and was dragging him across the floor, until he was pulled up and tossed onto a soft surface.

Gerard’s eyes widened when he saw where he was. He tried to moan but it stuck somewhere in his damaged throat.

Beecher didn’t even bother to speak. He simply held Gerard down and placed one end of a pair of handcuffs around each wrist, looping it around the metal frame headboard of the bed.

Gerard pulled at the cuffs, testing them, and found to his dismay that they were secure. With his arms held immobile above him and Beecher straddling his legs and looking angrier than he’d ever seen him, Gerard found himself on the edge of panic.

He watched Beecher’s hands sliding from his chest to his pants, watched as Beecher started to undo the zipper. He tried to tell him to stop, but his throat felt like it was swollen to twice its size and it hurt so goddamn much, and the words just wouldn’t come. He started thrashing then, bucking and twisting like a wild horse to get Beecher off of him.

But he was weak, weaker now that he’d been strangled nearly to death, and he succeeded only in making Beecher even angrier.

“I told you to stop fighting,” Beecher yelled before striking him yet again across the face.

While he lay stunned from the latest blow, Beecher took the opportunity to undo Gerard’s pants, pulling them down and off of his body along with his underwear.

When Gerard was at last able to look down he saw to his horror that Beecher was naked from the waist down, kneeling between his legs and grinning like a Cheshire cat gone mad.

"Don’t, Beecher. Please,” he said, whispering the words despite the pain it caused his throat.

Beecher grabbed his hair and pulled his head to the side, exposing his throat. “You filthy, little mongrel bitch. I was gonna make the first time easy on you. But now . . .”

“Wait. Silas. Wait.”

Beecher ignored the plea, pushing forward with a savagery that caused Gerard to inhale sharp and deep and arch his back in a futile attempt to get away.

Beecher placed one hand on Gerard’s hip, fingers almost imbedded in his flesh to keep him still, while the other stayed fisted in his hair. “Stop moving,” he ordered.

And Gerard surprisingly did. There was nowhere to go anyway. There was no point in fighting any longer, no point in anything.

He had lost.

As the assault went on, time became a slippery thing, measured out not in seconds and minutes but in groans and thrusts and stabbing pain after stabbing pain.

And just when he thought that it would never end, that he had died after all and this was his own personal punishment in hell, it ended. Beecher planted his face in the crook of Gerard’s neck as if he were nuzzling him, shuddering and groaning against him before collapsing on top of him.

Gerard opened his eyes and looked up the ceiling, wondering why it looked so blurry. It took him a moment to realize that it was his tears’ doing. He frowned. He couldn’t even remember when he’d started to cry.

Beecher, who’d been lying on top of him like dead weight, suddenly shifted, pulling out of his body as quickly as he’d entered it. Gerard let out a strangled gasp at the burning friction and turned his gaze from the ceiling.

He could feel it, could feel the wetness sliding out of him and seeping into the mattress below.

“That was good,” Beecher said as he stood. “I knew you’d be a good lay. Tighter than hell. Next time we’ll go slower though.”

Next time.

Just the thought of this happening again was enough to cause Gerard’s stomach to roil. He clamped his mouth shut and breathed in and out heavily in an effort to keep from throwing up.

Beecher must have seen something of Gerard’s distress in his face because he smiled knowingly. “Don’t worry; I need a little time to recuperate. I’m good but I’m not that good. Besides, I gotta punish you first.”

“Punish me?” Gerard whispered incredulously, unsure if he’d heard right.

“I told you, I don’t mind a little fight, but when I order you to stop and keep still, I expect you to listen. And I don’t remember the name Master coming out of your mouth at any time.”

At Gerard’s stunned look, Beecher’s smile dropped.

“You’ve gotta learn, Gerard. You’ve gotta be taught.”

As Gerard looked on, Beecher opened a door across the room and stepped inside, emerging only seconds later with a leather strop in his hands.

Gerard shrank away from him, pulling himself up as close to the top of the bed as he could. “You don’t have to use that,” he croaked.

Beecher folded the strop in half and stepped forward, hitting it lightly against his palm. “You might want to turn over. It’s gonna hurt a lot more on the front than the back.”

Even in the state he was in, Gerard could recognize good advice when he heard it. He turned onto his stomach as quickly as he could. It put his hands and wrist at an awkward angle, causing them to sing with pain, but it was still a lot better than having that medieval torture device hitting the front of his body.

He jumped when he felt Beecher’s lips against his ear. “After we’re done with this, you and I are going to have a little discussion about what it means to be a good slave. Understand?”

Gerard wanted to tell Beecher that he didn’t understand. He didn’t understand any of this and he just wanted it to stop. He would give up everything he had, all the success he’d ever achieved, if it would just fucking stop.

He didn’t say a word, however; didn’t make a sound.

Until the strop connected with his back – over and over again.

And then, damaged throat notwithstanding, Gerard screamed.


	7. Chapter 7

After a quiet and uneventful limousine ride, Frank stood, craning his neck to stare up at the building that he’d just been told was his new home. It was colonial, large and stately, and it screamed history and elegance and money. Despite himself, he was impressed. He had wanted to hate it on sight, but what he hated was the fact that he didn’t hate it.

He was escorted inside the mansion by one of the mayoral aides who proceeded to guide him through it, all the while nattering on as if he were a tour guide. Frank tried his best to take it all in, trying to remember everything he was being shown and told. From the ballroom to the library, the dining room to the sun room, the servants’ quarters to the gardens, he listened intently to the aide’s tales. Besides learning about the house and the staff, Frank also learned a little about Sheridan. He learned that the man was married, had two small children that supposedly ran around constantly and that he was richer than sin. That in fact, the mayoral mansion was smaller than his actual home on the outskirts of the city.

At the end of the tour, the aide brought him back to the kitchen area and announced that this is where he would be working.

“Here?” Frank asked, looking around in awe and trepidation. The place was massive, an imposing combination of stainless steel and red brick that despite its modern air still held an underlying feel of the medieval.

The aide nodded. “Three shifts. Breakfast, lunch and dinner. And the cleanup afterward.”

“But . . . ”

The aide ignored him in favor of calling over an older gentleman whom he proceeded to introduce as Joseph, the kitchen’s supervisor. Frank noted with surprise that Joseph had dark hair, so far the only person with dark hair he had met in a position of any authority.

Joseph took one look at him and curled his lip. “I don’t have time for this today.” He turned his head and shouted, “Rebecca!”

A petite girl with wildly curly hair jogged over, wiping her hands on a small towel. “Yes, Joseph?”

“This is Frank. He’s new to the household and apparently will be working here.”

Rebecca eyed Frank with open curiosity. “Hi, Frank.”

Frank waved a hand. “Hi.”

The aide looked at all three of them in turn before clapping his hands together in satisfaction. “Great! I’ll leave you to get to work. Joseph, Rebecca. Frank, welcome aboard.”

And with that, he was gone, zipping through the kitchen at top speed.

“Rebecca, why don’t you and Frank start on the potatoes?” Joseph suggested, already walking away himself. “Show him how things work and make sure he stays out of trouble.”

“Since you asked so nicely, Joseph,” she said with a smirk. When she turned to Frank her smile had transformed into one that was warm and genuine. “Come on. We’ve just started to get dinner ready. Master Sheridan has guests tonight, so we have a lot to do.”

“What do I do?”

She walked to a large sink full of potatoes and motioned him over. “Grab one. Grab a peeler. Peel and move on to the next one.”

“I don’t know how good I’m going to be at this.”

She winked at him. “How badly can you mess up a potato?”

“Yeah, right. You don’t know me.”

They worked in silence for a few minutes, with Frank concentrating intently on not slicing any of his fingers off, until Rebecca leaned toward him. “You’re really going to like it here,” she said brightly. “I mean, I don’t know how it was with your last master, but you’re really going to like it here.”

He paused, peeler in mid-air. “Why’s that?”

“Well, Master Sheridan is very fair. He actually rewards you for doing what you’re supposed to do. And he hardly ever punishes you. I mean, he will if he has to, but he hates it. You know how some masters will punish you for every little thing - sometimes for nothing at all? Not here.”

The word punishment brought to mind his and Gerard’s forced sessions with the electric shock machine. The memories of it were still too vivid and fresh to shrug off easily and he found himself feeling nauseous. “What does getting punished consist of?” he asked through a throat gone desert-dry.

She shrugged, as if the information she was imparting was inconsequential. “Usually a whipping. Or a beating. Some time locked in one of the basement rooms. It depends on the offense.”

He set the peeler aside and braced himself against the sink in front of him, hanging his head so that his bangs obscured his vision. “Jesus.”

“But I told you,” she said quickly, trying to reassure him. “He doesn’t do it often. He doesn’t have to.”

“Somehow that doesn’t make me feel any better.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

He shook his head and took in deep breath after deep breath until the nausea passed. “It’s ok,” he said, lifting his head and offering a weak smile. “Not your fault.” He picked up another potato and the peeler, dismayed to see that his hands were trembling.

After another few minutes passed in silence, Rebecca spoke again. “I noticed that you have a lot of inkings,” she asked. “Are those from your previous master?”

Frank bristled, feeling defensive and protective of his tattoos all at once. “No, these are from me. I wanted them. I got them.”

“Well, how can you–? Never mind.”

Hearing the hurt in her voice made him regret the way he’d answered. “Look, I’m sorry. It’s just . . . this is all really weird for me. I’m not . . . ” he trailed off, he couldn’t even begin to think how to explain things to her. Not that she’d believe him anyway. “I’m not from around here,” he finished lamely.

“Well, where are you from that things are so different?”

Frank chuckled, but the laughter came out bitter and angry. He clamped his mouth on it, not liking how it sounded. “I’m from New Jersey.”

Rebecca grinned, thinking she was being teased. “New Jersey’s not that far away.”

“My Jersey is.”

Tilting her head to the side, she examined Frank as if he were a walking, talking conundrum. Finally, just as he was starting to feel uncomfortable under her scrutiny, she said, “Anyone ever tell you that you’re a bit strange?”

This time the laugh that erupted from him was genuine. It felt good and it felt pure and he was grateful to Rebecca for it. “Would you believe, yes?”

It was at the moment that Rebecca joined him in laughter that Frank decided that the girl might just be all right.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hours later, Frank lay curled up in the bed of his assigned room, tossing and turning in the dark, yearning for sleep yet finding it elusive.

There were far too many thoughts running around in his brain for it to shut down. Thoughts about home, his fiancé, his parents, the rest of the band, his friends; all of them flitting around in his head, all demanding precedence. But the one thought that resounded most prominently, the one that came to the forefront of his mind over and over, was how Gerard was faring with Beecher.

He knew that Gerard would fight. But he also knew that Gerard wouldn’t win.

In his mind’s eye he could see, technicolor bright, Gerard beaten and bloody and Beecher standing over him, triumphant. He tried to tell himself that the image was a result of his overactive imagination and the things they’d been through recently, but deep down inside he feared that the image was truth.

A knock came at the door, soft but sure, and Frank’s body stiffened. He pushed himself to a sitting position, staring into the darkness warily. Before he could react further, the door opened and the room was flooded with light. Frank shielded his eyes with his hand, temporarily blinded.

“Hello, Frank.”

Eyes narrowed against the intrusion of light, he lowered his hand to see the mayor striding toward him, all easy confidence and grace.

Frank grabbed hold of the covers and pulled them up to his chin, only lowering them when he realized how feminine a gesture it is. He sat up a little straighter as Sheridan took a seat on the edge of the bed.

“I’m sorry I haven’t been able to come see you until now,” Sheridan said. “Today has been one thing after another.”

When Sheridan paused as if waiting for an answer, Frank could only shrug, unsure of what to say. “Um . . . that’s ok,” he finally replied.

“So how was your first day?”

The man’s warm smile and his easy demeanor were off-putting. Frank wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting from his first face-to-face meeting with him, although a villain in a black cape twirling his mustache came close, but this most definitely was not it.

He didn’t see any point in lying. Everybody had been good to him so far, there had been no insults, no shoves, nothing even resembling what he’d had to endure in the jail cell. “It was ok,” he said.

“And how are you feeling? After the interrogations, I mean.”

He rolled his shoulders and straightened his back, testing despite knowing the answer. “Still sore. Getting electrocuted stays with you for a while.”

“Sir,” Sheridan said, and for a moment Frank was confused, thinking the man was addressing him by the honorarium until he recognized that Sheridan was prompting him. “You can call me sir. I don’t like being called Master.”

Frank wasn’t particularly fond of using either of those titles, but he knew how to pick his battles, and this was one where he could afford to cede. Still, he could barely get the word out, his throat seeming to want to close up around it. He finally managed to mutter a small, “Sir.”

Sheridan patted him on his knee. “Good. I think you’re going to do well here, Frank. I think you might even be happy if you gave it a chance.”

Frank doubted that. He doubted that very much. “I’d be happier if I knew what was happening to Gerard.”

“Your friend?”

“Yeah.”

“I’ll tell you what. I’ll have one of my aides call Mr. Beecher tomorrow and check on how Gerard’s doing. If time permits, I’ll even do it myself.”

“Really?” Frank asked. His voice contained an uneasy melding of hope and skepticism. “You’d do that?”

“I would.”

“Can I . . . ” Frank hesitated, unsure if he was pushing too far. “Can I see him?”

Sheridan nodded slowly, brow furrowed as he mulled over the request. “I can probably arrange that. But one thing at a time, all right? First we need to get you settled here and make sure that Gerard is doing the same with his new owner.”

“His owner?” he spat. “All that guy’s gonna do is hurt Gerard.”

“You don’t know that, Frank.”

“But I do,” Frank said fervently. “I do know. Why doesn’t anyone believe me? Why doesn’t anyone else care?”

Sheridan’s smile diminished, darkening by degrees until he looked solemn. “I will check on Gerard. That’s my promise to you. But you have to understand - he belongs to Silas Beecher now and Silas Beecher has the right to do what he wants with him.”

“That’s not right. You can’t treat us like property because we have dark hair. It’s not right.”

Sheridan’s silence told Frank that he’d blown it, that this time he’d gone too far. “You have so much to learn, don’t you?” Sheridan asked, not unkindly.

“I don’t want to learn it. I don’t want to know any of it,” Frank said before dropping his gaze. He didn’t care if he sounded petulant. He was exhausted, homesick and a little bit terrified and his nerves felt shredded and raw. As he forced his gaze upward, he met Sheridan’s eyes and saw that they shone feral in the room’s light. Even in the state he was in, Frank recognized the shift in the room, the subtle charge of electricity that prickled at his skin. “What is it?” he asked.

Voice soft as warm honey, Sheridan said, “You’re so beautiful in person, Frank. I thought you were pretty when I saw you on the monitor in the jail, but now, having you here . . . ” Quick as a cat, Sheridan reached forward and grazed his knuckles down the side of Frank’s face. “You’re so much more beautiful.”

Frank shied away from the touch, head spinning from how quick a turn the conversation had taken. “I’m not . . . ”

“Not beautiful?” Sheridan finished for him. “But you are. You’ll be even more so when those horrible bruises fade.”

Frank touched a hand to where he knew the bruising to be, remembering how it had felt to be struck repeatedly while helpless.

“Frank."

Ripped prematurely from the memory, he gasped. “Yeah?”

“I want to see you better.”

Frank glanced around the room. Sheridan was only two feet away from him. The only way he was going to get a closer look was if he opened his mouth and Sheridan examined his tonsils. “I’m right here,” he said.

Sheridan tugged at the hem of Frank’s shirt. “Not what I meant. Take this off.”

Frank shook his head. “No.

“You don’t have to be afraid.”

“I’m not afraid.”

“Frank, I’m not going to hurt you. I will never hurt you. As long as you do as I ask.”

Frank lifted his chin, a spark of defiance buzzing in his chest. “And if I don’t want to?”

“I don’t like to punish my people. I hate it, as a matter of fact. But I will if I have to. But as long as you do what you’re told - if you don’t fight me, Frank - then I’ll never have to.”

The spark, which only a moment ago had the potential to grow into something strong and bright, was gone, leaving him feeling cold and empty in its absence. Dropping his head into his hands, he groaned. “God, this is a nightmare.”

A moment later he felt fingers under his chin, insistent as they pushed his head up. He allowed it, lifting his head to find that Sheridan had moved closer. “I’m going to be honest with you. I want you. I have from the moment I saw you. And it’s my right as your owner. But I understand how difficult this must be for you And I’m a patient man. I can go slowly and I would never, ever hurt you.”

“I don’t want this,” Frank said, unaware that he was shaking his head violently from side to side. “I don’t want to do this.”

“I’m just asking you to lift your shirt off. That’s all.”

With shaking fingers Frank took hold of his shirt and clutched the fabric tight. He wanted nothing more than to tell Sheridan to go to hell, and then maybe escort the man there himself, but he knew that Sheridan was his only link to Gerard and there was no way he was going to jeopardize that. Inhaling deeply, he lifted the shirt up and over his head in one swift motion, as if he were pulling off a band-aid, before tossing it to the side of the bed.

Sheridan nodded in obvious satisfaction, eyes agleam, before the tattoos caught his attention. He touched his fingertips to the one of Frank’s arms. “These are extensive.”

Frank sat very still as Sheridan’s fingers glided across his skin, exploring each of his tattoos in turn.

“Your previous master must have had a thing for inking,” Sheridan said, sounding awed.

“There was no other master. Just me. I chose these.”

Sheridan continued to stroke his skin, the touch so whisper soft it almost tickled. “Of course,” he said and Frank knew that the man was just humoring him, that he didn’t believe him any more than anyone else he’d encountered so far. “I don’t normally like this much inking, but on you . . . it suits you.”

The compliment shouldn’t have felt good. It shouldn’t have, but it did. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

Sheridan’s fingers trailed up his arm and across his shoulder where they splayed out to cup the side of Frank’s face.

“So beautiful.”

Frank shook his head, not really sure if he was negating the touch or the compliment or both.

Sheridan nodded in counterpoint. “You are. You are,” he mumbled, before closing the distance between them and touching his lips to Frank’s.

And then he was kissing him, slow and languorous, as if they had all of eternity to indulge in this one simple act.

Frank had play-kissed his band mates more times than even he cared to remember, but it had always been in fun, always make-believe. It had never been like this. It had never been real.

He resisted the natural urge to push Sheridan, to fight away what he didn’t want. He had to remind himself that it was only a kiss and that it meant nothing. Even as Sheridan teased at the inside of his mouth with his tongue, even as he nibbled almost playfully at his lips, Frank tried in vain to convince himself that it was only a portion of his body that he was offering up and not his soul.

When Sheridan broke the kiss, Frank tipped forward, breathless as the world spun around him. It was only Sheridan’s strong hand at the back of his neck that steadied him.

“I’ll let you get to sleep now, Frank.”

Struck mute by what he had done, Frank could only nod his head. He didn’t even look up as he felt the light kiss on his temple or Sheridan moving away.

“You’re going to do just fine here.”

Frank only continued to nod. What was there to say?

Thanks for violating me. Thanks for making me do something I didn’t want to do.

Sheridan was already by the door when he spoke again. “And next time, Frank. I do expect you to call me sir when you address me.”

Swallowing past the huge lump in his throat, Frank finally lifted his eyes. Sheridan was smiling at him again, the look of animal need in his eyes gone. The room had shifted yet again, the atmosphere benign once more.

After the forced intimacy of the kiss, words seemed inconsequential. He lay his body back down on the bed, feeling weary now and on the edge of sleep. “Yes, sir.”

“Much better,” Sheridan said. It was obvious by his tone that he was pleased. “Welcome home, Frank.”


	8. Chapter 8

It had taken four days to break him.

Four days of being tied to the bed in Beecher’s austere bedroom, only allowed up so that he could stumble and crawl to the bathroom.

Four days of being fucked repeatedly, until the mere sight of Beecher pulling down his pants was enough to send him into complete hysterics.

Four days of Beecher alternating between the strop and a more conventional belt, urging him to give in with promises of respite.

 _Call me Master and this all stops, Gerard. I’ll give you something for the pain. I’ll let you rest. All you have to do is call me Master._

 _Go to hell._

 _Wrong words, sweetheart._

That had been the first day, when he had still been strong.

 _Say the word, Gerard. You know what to say to make this stop._

 _Fuck you, Beecher._

 _Now see, you’ve got that all turned around._

That had been on the second, and even then Gerard’s resolve had been weakening, the required words already burning on the tip of his tongue.

 _Say it, Gerard. Let this stop._

Four days of shame and pain and terror, replayed over and over again until he’d shattered, until he couldn’t get the words out fast enough, could barely make them intelligible over his sobs.

 _Master. Oh God, please stop, Master. Please stop. Don’t hurt me anymore . . . no more . . ._

That had been a little over two weeks ago, most of which Gerard had spent in a dazed stupor of pain pills and shock. In those two weeks, Beecher, like a modern day Frankenstein, had gathered the shattered pieces of Gerard’s psyche and fashioned them to his liking.

Beecher had so much confidence in his new creation that he’d decided to go back to work, picking today to be his first day, thereby leaving Gerard completely unsupervised in the house since his so-called “training” had started.

With a peck on the lips that was surprisingly chaste and an admonishment to ‘be a good boy’, Beecher left the house, closing and locking the door behind him.

The first thing Gerard did after Beecher was gone was to take a moment to simply relish being alone. In his mind it was starting to seem as if Beecher had always been with him, like some kind of parasitic entity that one was born with. He hadn’t realized how badly he’d needed this very simple thing - time spent away from the man.

The second thing he did was to gaze longingly at the door and fantasize about the freedom that lay beyond it. During the course of the day, he walked to it numerous times, placing his hands flat against it. Once he even found the courage to open it and poke his head out into the fresh morning air.

He took one quick look at the neighboring houses and cars before ducking back inside and slamming the door behind him, struck hard by the conviction that the freedom beyond the door was a lie - a beautiful, unattainable mirage that melted away in the face of reality and logic. The truth was, he could see no way of finding Frank, getting him out of the mayor’s clutches and back to the woods without being captured. Especially not when every inch of his body ached and his speed and agility was now that of a man twice his age.

No, Gerard could imagine perfectly well how an escape attempt would go down. He’d be caught before ever finding Frank and dragged back to Beecher, who would be livid. Even now, relatively safe, the thought of what Beecher would do to him if that were to happen caused Gerard to tremble and break into a cold sweat.

No, it was better to stay. Better to stay and play the whore and clean Beecher’s house and call him Master and whatever else it took to make him happy. Because the other option . . . it just didn’t bear thinking about.

And when a small voice on the edge of his consciousness whispered to him that he was a coward, Gerard merely told it to shut the fuck up before picking up a broom and starting in on the kitchen.

It was several hours later that Gerard was finally able to limp over to the couch and sit on it gingerly, trying to keep his weight off of his backside. He found it darkly ironic that not too long ago the prospect of Beecher forcing himself on him was the worst thing that he could imagine. He had equated it with a sort of living death, knowing that he wouldn’t survive it. Now, here he was, and Beecher had assaulted him more times than his battered mind could possibly keep track of and yet he still lived. Even if sometimes he wished he didn’t.

Gerard had never been much of a praying man (who prays to a god that might not exist?) but lately he’d found himself praying on the off-chance that someone, somewhere, was listening. He never prayed for himself though - always for Frank. Night after night, after being mercifully banished from Beecher’s bed, he would lay in his tiny room and send out fervent entreaties into the dark that Frank’s owner be kinder than his own.

He shifted his gaze to the clock on the wall and saw that Beecher would be home any minute. Heart already beating a little faster, he did a quick mental inventory of Beecher’s work list for perhaps the hundredth time - he’d done absolutely everything that he’d been told to do, including cooking his dinner. Beecher had made it very clear that he expected dinner on the table for him when he arrived home from work every night. Gerard was no cook, but he could manage a few fairly serviceable meals - the first of which, tonight’s, would be spaghetti.

When the front door opened a few minutes later, Gerard’s heart jumped up somewhere in the vicinity of his throat where it proceeded to thunder wildly. He pushed himself to standing, groaning at the protest of sore muscles and skin stretched too tight against welts and bruises.

As Beecher walked toward him, familiar lecherous smile in place, Gerard fought the urge to turn tail and run and hide. He knew what was going to happen, the same thing that always happened - the man had a libido like the Energizer bunny - and he wasn’t ready. God help him, he still hurt so badly. Last night Beecher had taken pity on him and had told Gerard to suck him off instead. It had been messy and awkward and generally horrible and yet it was a testament to how truly fucking pitiful his life was that Gerard was actually grateful for the reprieve.

“Well, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes.” Beecher reached him and brought their lips together, and it was less a kiss than a declaration of possession.

“So, what did you do all day?” Beecher asked after he’d pulled away.

“Everything you to told me to, Master.” Gerard no longer died a little inside when he said the word. It had, in fact, become quite easy to say once he’d started counting survival as more important than pride.

Beecher nodded approvingly. “You’re learning, Way. You’re really coming along.”

Gerard knew Beecher meant it as a compliment, but he couldn’t make himself acknowledge it. Nodding, he dropped his gaze to the floor, hoping his actions were submissive enough to forego an answer.

Beecher chuckled and drew Gerard close so they stood cheek to cheek. The hot breath against his ear formed vile words. “I’ve thought about fucking you all day. I’ve missed that tight ass of yours.” He stepped away, so abruptly that Gerard stumbled. “But we should eat first, huh? Something smells good.”

Beecher sat at the small dining table while Gerard served everything, bringing out the pasta along with the salad and bread he’d made to go with it. When Beecher asked for a beer, Gerard quickly fetched it for him, opening it up and handing it to him, before finally sitting down himself.

For a few minutes the only audible sound was that of Beecher wolfing down his food. It was when he finally slowed down that he noticed Gerard wasn’t eating. “Aren’t you going to have any?”

Gerard glanced at the food in front of him and shook his head. Just the thought of it made him feel ill. “I’m not really hungry, Master.”

“Oh no. Don’t pull that shit on me. You’ve gotta eat. You’re getting too damn skinny.”

“But I’m not –“

“Eat some of it. I don’t want you turning into skin and bones.”

A casual listener might mistake Silas Beecher’s words for concern, but Gerard knew damn well what he was saying.

I don’t want to fuck something that looks like a corpse.

He grabbed a fork and shoved some of the pasta into his mouth. Despite the fact that it was fairly good, it still stuck in his throat like cardboard. He put all his concentration into chewing and swallowing and not gagging. Mercifully, after a few bites Beecher signaled his satisfaction, and Gerard set the fork on the table, chasing the food down with some water.

After a mostly silent dinner, Beecher went to sit in front of the viewbox, this world’s answer to a television set, while Gerard cleaned up and did the dishes. He was crying by the time he was done, the running water drowning his soft sobs. These little jags blind sided him every once in a while and he was almost powerless to stop them. All he could do was to ride them out as best he could and hope Beecher didn’t notice - not because Beecher didn’t like to see him cry, but because he liked it a little too much.

“Way, get me another beer!”

Gerard shut off the tap, but not before splashing some cold water on his face to hide the tear marks and puffy eyes. He breathed in and out deeply several times, trying to regain some semblance of composure before he had to face Beecher.

“Gerard!”

He knew he still looked like hell, but he was out of time. He grabbed the beer and opened it, hurrying it over to where Beecher lounged on the couch.

“Here it is.”

Beecher held out his hand for the beer, too immersed in whatever show he was watching to tear his eyes away from it. Gerard placed the bottle into the outstretched hand, where it proceeded to fall through Beecher’s fingers when he closed them just a fraction of a second too late. The bottle hit the floor, splashing its contents all over Beecher before starting to soak into the carpet.

Beecher stood up, wiping at his pants as if he’d been scalded. “What the fuck?”

Horrified, Gerard backed away. “I’m . . . I’m sorry.”

“You clumsy bitch! Look what you did!”

“It was an accident. I’ll clean it up.”

The backhanded slap that sent him reeling to the floor wasn’t entirely unexpected and yet the fury that Beecher exuded was so out of proportion to the crime that all Gerard could do was stare up at the man in stunned bewilderment.

Beecher hit him again, this time with a closed fist. “Look what you fucking did!”

Gerard brought a hand up to his injured eye. He could already feel it swelling beneath his fingertips. He started to scrabble backward, away from Beecher and the rage that burned like fire. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, you will be.” Beecher tangled his fingers in Gerard’s hair and yanked, forcing Gerard to move in that direction or get his hair pulled right out of his scalp. He dragged him to the spill and pushed him so his face was only inches away from the still fizzing liquid.

“Clean it.”

Gerard pushed himself up so that he was kneeling on all fours and hovering above the spilled beer. His arms and legs were shaking so badly, he thought it a miracle he didn’t fall to the floor in a trembling heap. “I . . . need . . . a . . . towel . . .” he stammered.

“Fuck it, Way,” Beecher growled, and while he still sounded angry, there was something else in his voice now, something baser, more primitive. “Fuck you. Your ass in the air like that . . . ”

He felt Beecher’s hands at the waistband of his pants, fumbling, searching. He dug his own hands into the carpet, trying to anchor himself and ride out what was coming. Somewhere in the back of his mind, the little voice from earlier urged him to not give in, to fight. And just like before, he told the little voice to shut the fuck up and mind its own damned business.

It was hard, fast and unnecessarily brutal, and when it was over Beecher pulled out and stood up without ceremony, tucking himself back into his pants and wiping at his sweat-covered forehead.

Gerard, for his part, could only curl up into a ball, nerveless fingers trying to pull up his pants, failing because they couldn’t seem to hold onto anything. He knew he was bleeding again, not massively, not anything he would die of, but enough that there would be spotting for the next couple of days at least.

He felt the light touch of Beecher’s fingers against his newly bruised cheek. “See what you made me do? You need to learn to be more careful.”

There was no response worthy of the absurdity of Beecher’s statement, so Gerard merely stared up at him, his breaths coming harsh and heavy.

Beecher sighed and his face softened. If Gerard didn’t know any better, he would say the man was feeling regret, maybe pity. But Gerard did know better. Beecher didn’t feel anything but lust and hate and anger. Whatever this was, it was false, an illusion, although to what end Gerard couldn’t guess.

“Shit, Gerard. Just clean this up, then come to bed.”

Gerard waited until Beecher had left, then he rolled himself over onto his back. He didn’t even bother stifling the sobs when the crying jag hit this time. Weeping into his hands he rode it out, and when he was done, he gave a cursory wipe to his face, buttoned his pants and slowly stood up.

Beecher had given him orders and it didn’t pay to keep the man waiting.


	9. Chapter 9

After nearly four weeks, Frank found his life falling into a routine. Not a comfortable one by any means, but familiar nonetheless. He would wake up, shower and head to the kitchen where he’d meet up with Rebecca and the others from the staff. They’d get their day’s instructions from Joseph and then get to work, not stopping until nighttime, albeit with plenty of breaks in between.

The days, all in all, weren’t too bad. He’d made friends, not just with the people he worked with in the kitchen, but with almost everyone in the house. Even Joseph, whose disposition tended toward sour on the best of days, treated him with a small amount of affection.

It was when nightfall came and everyone retired to their respective quarters that things went to hell. Every third or fourth night without fail, Sheridan would slip into Frank’s room and they’d lie on the narrow bed and grope like teenagers in the back of a car. Although, to be more accurate, it was Sheridan that did all the groping while Frank just lay still and endured, participating as little as possible. Every third or fourth night, Frank would slice off a little part of his pride and hand it to Sheridan on a platter, all in return for rote assurances about Gerard.

 _Gerard’s fine._

 _I spoke with Silas myself, he says he’s adjusting really well._

 _Yes, you will see him soon, Frankie._

When Frank had finally pushed, Sheridan had told him that soon was four or five months down the road, that they still had much to evaluate and consider, that they still needed to be certain that neither he nor Gerard was some sort of rebel spy. When he’d protested, he’d been told in no uncertain terms that nothing sooner would even be considered and did he really want to push the issue any further?

Every third or fourth night, like clockwork.

Until now.

Six nights had passed without any visits. Frank should have been ecstatic, relieved that Sheridan had found some other person to haunt. What he felt, however, was afraid. Because Sheridan wanting him was the only bargaining chip he had. If he didn’t have that, then he’d have nothing and he knew, as surely as if he could scry it in a crystal ball, that Gerard would be lost to him. It made him literally sick to admit it, but as much as he despised Sheridan’s attention, he needed it.

“Hey, where’d you go?”

It was Rebecca who spoke, her normally cheerful voice roughened by concern.

He turned to face her, most of his mind still lost in his thoughts about Sheridan. “Huh?”

“Where’d you go in your head just now?”

They sat in a corner in the common area, a large room just off the kitchen set aside for the slaves to gather. There were others in the room as well, but he and Rebecca sat apart from them, talking like conspiracists in the corner.

Before Frank could answer, Rebecca asked. “Are you thinking about him? About Gerard?”

And he had been, even if not directly, but he found that he didn’t want to talk about Gerard just now. Sometimes, just hearing his name spoken aloud hurt - like nails scratching at an open, tender wound.

He ignored the question and countered with one of his own. “Has he been to see you lately? The past couple of nights? Has he been with you?”

“Who? Master?”

Frank nodded.

“No, he hasn’t.”

He nodded again and, bringing his thumb to his mouth, started to chew on the nail - a nervous habit he’d only recently acquired. “Do you know who he was with?”

“No, I don’t. Why? What’s this about?”

He shrugged, pulled his hand away and looked at the ruined nail in disgust. “Man, I’d kill for a cigarette.”

“You know he doesn’t like smoking,” Rebecca said offhandedly. “And if you keep ignoring all my questions, I’m going to ignore you right back.”

“It’s just . . . he hasn’t come to see me in six nights, Rebecca.”

“I thought you didn’t like–“

“I don’t. It’s just . . . ugh . . . I don’t know.” He popped the nail back in his mouth.

“I don’t understand what the problem is, Frank. I mean, he’s entitled. And yet he never makes it hurt, always goes slow, always makes sure that you enjoy it too. What’s so horrible about that?”

He hesitated, aware that he was treading on potentially sensitive ground. He knew that Rebecca, and for that matter most of the others, didn’t feel the same way he did about Sheridan’s late night visits. Where he saw them as the worst kind of burden, they saw them as something akin to privilege. Nobody talked much about their previous masters, but when they did it was to recount horror after horror. In comparison, Sheridan must have seemed like an angel to them. Speaking ill of the man always provoked intense feelings, something that Frank didn’t want to deal with tonight.

“Nothing, I guess. I was just wondering. Forget I said anything.”

She gave him a long, hard look before shrugging and standing. “Come on, it’s time for bed, anyway.”

“Right,” he said, wincing as he looked at the clock that marked their designated bedtime. “Time for bed.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hours later, Frank still could not find his way to sleep. He lay curled up on his side in bed, eyes fixed on the outline of the door before him, torn between desperately wanting the door to stay closed and desperately needing it to open.

He’d just given up, resigning himself to another night of wondering if he’d lost favor when he heard the soft knock at the door. He sat up and switched on the bedside lamp, placing one hand over his heart as if to still it by touch alone.

It was Sheridan of course, no one else had any business coming into his room at this hour. He crossed the room and sat down on the bed in front of Frank, close enough that his clothed knees touched Frank’s sheet-covered ones. Raking both of his hands through Frank’s hair, he pulled him close, forcing an embrace. “Frankie, I missed you.”

“I thought you weren’t coming back.”

“What?”

Frank brought a hand to his mouth, surprised at himself for letting that slip out. “Nothing, sir.”

“No, Frankie. What did you say?”

He’d been around Sheridan long enough to recognize the command in the question. “I thought that you weren’t coming back. That you didn’t . . . like me anymore, maybe. I don’t know.”

Sheridan moved his hands over Frank’s throat, down his chest, across his back. “If it were up to me, you’d be with me every night. So beautiful.” Like a starving vampire, he fastened his lips to the side of Frank’s neck and began to nip at the tender flesh.

“Oh,” was all Frank could think of to say, shuddering as he tilted his head back to allow the man easier access.

“I’ve just been busy,” Sheridan muttered against Frank’s throat. “And Marie’s needed me.”

“Your wife.”

Sheridan nodded as he pulled away to unbutton his shirt and shrug it off. Frank, knowing what was expected, pulled his own shirt up and over his head and tossed it on the ground. Then with deft, practiced hands, Sheridan eased Frank onto his back.

Taking a deep breath, Frank let himself go boneless while Sheridan poured over his body as if it were a map that could only be deciphered through taste and touch.

The first few times, he had tried to pretend it was Jamia that was doing these things to him, but that thought was so horribly wrong that it had bordered on blasphemy. He’d tried to imagine other women, but that hadn’t worked either. Sheridan’s touch was not a woman’s touch and no amount of imagination could make it so. In the end, he had accepted the fact that the best way to get through the sessions was to zone out, to allow his mind to shrink into itself until he was barely aware of anything at all.

Sheridan slid up, positioning himself so that his chest was just over Frank’s face. Gently, he placed a hand behind Frank’s neck, cradling it and raising it until Frank’s lips touched his skin.

And suddenly Frank was right there, brought back to awareness as if someone had shocked him into being. He tried to turn his head away, but Sheridan tightened his hold.

“Kiss me.”

Once again, Frank knew enough to recognize an order when he heard it. Once again, he complied. He placed parchment dry kisses all along Sheridan’s collarbone and chest, letting the other man guide him.

“Just like that, Frankie. Just like that.”

Frank screwed his eyes shut against the words, as if the action had the power to block them out. It was too much like starring in a bad porno. It wasn’t fair - to take him out of his cocoon and make him participate, to make things real.

Sheridan moaned low in his throat before pulling away. Confused, Frank opened his eyes just in time to see Sheridan smile at him before he turned them both over so that it was Sheridan who lay on his back.

“Sir?”

“I want to try something new.”

“Okay . . . ”

Sheridan’s fingertips trailed heat down the side of his face. “I’ve been patient, Frank. Or I’ve tried to be, but I can’t stop thinking about that pretty, little mouth of yours.”

Pretty little mouth. It didn’t take a genius to figure out what the words meant. Frank shook his head, suddenly fearful.

With one hand, Sheridan worked at unzipping his pants. “It’s all right, Frank. You can do this for me. I know you can.”

Sheridan’s hand was heavy against the back of his head as it pushed him down. He had only seconds to decide - follow his instincts and beat the living shit out of this guy or do as he was told.

In the end it wasn’t even a conscious decision. He just closed his eyes and opened his mouth and let himself be led.

It took forever, or it seemed to, with all the false starts and hesitancy and uncertainty. And all the while there was the feel of Sheridan’s hand in his hair and the sound of his ever-running commentary.

A little harder.

Faster, Frankie.

Watch the teeth.

Just like that. That’s good, that’s perfect.

Frank did the best he could, following the instructions to the point where it became a mechanical thing and not a humiliating, degrading act.

And finally, after so long that his jaw ached miserably and he was sure he couldn’t possibly continue, came a tightening of the hand in his hair and Sheridan’s voice, almost unrecognizable, saying, “Swallow it, Frankie.”

Another order. He debated just biting the fucker. Let them punish him, he didn’t care, anything was better than this. But the debate ended quickly when Gerard’s face flashed, lightning quick, in front of him. He couldn’t allow himself this weak moment, not after everything he’d already been through.

He obeyed and, going against every natural instinct he had, he forced the thick, bitter liquid down his throat.

He pushed himself away so that he was kneeling on the bed, head down, tears prickling and burning at the corners of his eyes. His chest heaved with the effort it took not to gag and retch.

“Are you all right?” Sheridan asked, touching him lightly on the shoulder.

Frank shook his head.

“Frank, look at me.”

He mouthed the word no as Sheridan tipped his chin up.

“That was amazing. Thank you.”

He somehow managed to get it together long enough to jerk his head up and down - more marionette than human. He thought that he whispered some kind acknowledgment but he couldn’t be sure.

Please go away now. Please just go away.

“Now I want to do something for you.”

“No, you don’t have to.” His voice sounded ragged and torn, as if he were speaking through rust-covered vocal chords.

“Sh . . . I want to. Let me make you feel good.”

“No, I don’t want . . . ”

“Let me do this for you.”

Frank couldn’t find the strength to resist when Sheridan maneuvered him onto his back. He couldn’t find the strength to fight when Sheridan’s hands caressed his hips.

Only when Sheridan took hold of his pajama bottoms and boxers and slid them down to mid-thigh did he finally utter a small noise of protest as he tried to sit up.

“No.”

Placing a hand on Frank’s chest, Sheridan pushed him back down. “Let me make it feel good for you too, Frankie.” Reaching between Frank’s legs, Sheridan wrapped his hand around him and squeezed lightly.

“You don’t have to. I don’t want . . . ”

Sheridan took hold of Frank’s flailing hands and brought them to either side of Frank’s head. There he firmly set them down on the mattress. “Sh . . . right there. Keep them there.”

“Sir, please, you don’t have to.”

“This won’t hurt. I promised you I would never hurt you.”

But he was wrong. It did hurt, though not as Sheridan had meant it. Frank would have preferred physical pain to this feeling of helplessness; to feeling so dirty.

Dirty because somewhere between the disgust and the shame, his body had started to respond to the steady friction. He threw an arm over his eyes as if to hide from what was happening, his other hand clutching at the sheets as he came into Sheridan’s hand with a small cry.

Breathing rapidly, he turned onto his side, his body going almost fetal. He felt sick inside, and he knew that no matter what else happened, he would never forgive Sheridan for forcing that on him. Or himself for responding to it.

“Frankie? What’s wrong? Did I hurt you?”

“No,” he whispered. “Please, I just . . . I can’t do this anymore.”

“Frank . . . ”

Voice hiccuping, nearly sobbing he said, “I can’t. I just want to go home. Please just let me go home.”

He felt Sheridan’s arms encircle his body from behind. “Frankie, this is your home.”

“No. No, I used to be somebody. I used to have a life.”

“Frank . . . ”

“I used to have a life. I used to be . . . oh God. Oh God. I want to go back. Please let me go back.”

He knew he was babbling, skirting the edge of hysteria, but he couldn’t seem to stop.

“Let me go back. Let me go back to what I was.”

“Frankie.”

The sound of Sheridan’s stern voice made him realize what he’d been saying and whom he’d been saying it to. He pulled away and sat up, wiping at the few errant tears on his face. “I’m sorry, sir. Please don’t be mad.”

“Why would I be angry?”

“What I said . . . ”

“It’s going to take much more than that to get me angry with you, Frankie.”

“I’m not in trouble?”

Sheridan grazed the back of his knuckles along Frank’s cheek. “You’re not in trouble.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Frankie, I want you to tell me about your life.”

“What?”

“You said you used to have a life. You used to be somebody. Tell me about that.”

“Why?” he asked, a touch of bitterness creeping into his voice. “You’re not going to believe me anyway. ”

“I want to know. I want you to tell me.”

Frank considered for a moment before making his decision.

Fuck it. If he wants to know, then he’s gonna hear it.

So he told Sheridan everything, detailing the story of his life, all the while cognizant of the sour taste in his mouth and his own cum drying and flaking on his stomach. He told him about his dreams and ambitions and his loves, his losses and his triumphs. And when he was done, he settled back against the headboard, sheet drawn up to his neck, and waited for Sheridan’s reaction. He felt strangely at peace and a little fuzzy, almost as if he were ensconced in cotton, and he realized that spilling his guts like that had been cathartic in some way.

“You have either the most active imagination ever, are completely delusional, or you’re telling the truth,” Sheridan finally said.

“I can take a guess on which option you’d choose, sir.”

“Don’t be so sure.” He pressed his mouth to Frank’s, a surprisingly chaste kiss after their previous intimacy. “I hate that I made you cry.”

He left soon after, and after waiting a few minutes, Frank gathered up his clothes and all but ran to the communal bathroom. What he wanted was a shower, but slaves were only allowed one shower a day and he’d used his this morning. He made do by brushing his teeth and washing himself off as best he could with soap and the water from the sink. After several minutes, he gave up, knowing that no matter how hard he scrubbed or how hot the water, he was not going to feel clean.

Afterward, he wandered back to his room where he huddled under the covers, occasionally shivering, occasionally fighting to keep what sounded like an insane man’s laughter from overwhelming him.

It took a long time, what felt like hours, but eventually he slipped into a nightmare-plagued sleep.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Frank snuggled into the covers, drifting lazily into sleep when he heard a knock at the door. At first he thought that he’d imagined the sound, maybe even dreamed it, and he dismissed it. When it came again only seconds later, this time louder and more insistent, he hurried to sit up and turn on the light. As he watched, the door opened to reveal Jack Sheridan.

But that couldn’t be right. Sheridan had been here only last night. He blinked and rubbed at his eyes, hoping that he’d disappear like a mirage in a cartoon.

“Sir?”

The other man stepped over the threshold, but moved no further as if there were an invisible barrier he could not cross. In his hands, held like a sacred thing, was an acoustic guitar.

Frank drew forward, his body drawn to it like moth to flame.

“Last night you said that you play guitar,” Sheridan said. “But dark-haired’s can’t play, Frank. They’re never taught. Unless your last master taught you how–”

“There was no master,” Frank interrupted, eyes never leaving the guitar. “I taught myself.”

“Then show me.”

He finally looked up. “Show you?”

“Show me.”

“And when I do show you that I can play, then what?”

A shrug. “Then it’s yours. Regardless of what you can and can’t do with it. This is yours.”

Frank stood up, almost throwing himself forward in his eagerness. When he wrapped his hands around the neck of the instrument, the feeling was almost magical, like a man wandering in the wilderness, lost and alone, that had finally found his way home.

“Thank you, sir.”

Sheridan nodded, smiling. “Now play for me.”

And sitting down carefully on the edge of the bed, Frank did.


	10. Chapter 10

Gerard opened his eyes and looked up at the white ceiling before him.

Or, more accurately, he opened one eye, his left, to look. His right eye was swollen shut and would not budge, even when he tried repeatedly to open it.

He was not in Beecher’s house, he knew that much right away. Beecher’s ceilings were not partitioned with tiles, nor did they have lights imbedded in them.

Elevated slightly by the pillows under his head, his gaze traveled down the length of his body. He noted that his right hand and wrist were bandaged while his left hand had an IV taped to the back of it. Feeling queasy at the thought of a needle under his flesh, he looked to the side and to the heart monitor beeping near the bed.

A hospital then. It didn’t take a genius to figure it out, not once he’d realized that the cold, brisk air under his nose was coming from an oxygen tube.

He could feel his heart rate speeding up as he took in injury after injury. The fact that he’d been hurt badly enough to warrant a hospital stay was frightening enough, but what was really scaring the shit out of him was that he had absolutely no recollection of what had happened to him. He searched through his memory until his head ached and yet he could come up with nothing that would explain why he was here.

As he lay there, feeling both frustrated and scared, a thought occurred to him. Maybe, he speculated, he’d been in some sort of accident. A car accident, possibly. And maybe Beecher and the parallel world had been nothing but a dream. The more he thought about it, the more plausible it sounded. After all, it was possible that he’d been unconscious for a long time, maybe even in a coma. And people had dreams in comas, didn’t they?

He embraced the idea the more he thought about it; felt himself becoming excited about it. It had all been a dream; just a horrible, long dream that he could now begin to forget. In his excitement he made a move sit up and the pain, which had been lying fairly dormant, suddenly ignited. From the top of his head down to his legs, it threatened to consume him.

And in that instant, he remembered everything.

Beecher’s two friends had come over.

They’d started drinking, getting more boisterous, more out of control.

He’d been grabbed by the arm and pulled onto someone’s lap . . .

He fell back down to the bed, a low, guttural groan escaping his lips. He covered his face with his one good hand in a useless attempt to stop the images from coming at him.

He didn’t want to remember but he couldn’t stop it from happening. What had been so recently hidden was now fresh and clear and cutting.

He’d fought back; so sick of the insults and the touches, he’d fought back.

And Beecher had been so angry.

It was at that moment that Silas Beecher entered the hospital room. Gerard, drowning in the tide of memories, didn’t notice him until Beecher called out his name and placed a hand on his shoulder. He jerked away from the touch with a small cry.

“Easy. It’s just me,” Beecher said.

Gerard merely stared at him. If those words were supposed to calm him, they were not doing their job.

“It’s good to see you awake. We were worried about you.”

Gerard raised his bandaged arm slightly, making the gesture into a question.

Beecher nodded his understanding. “You’re in a hospital for mong-. For dark-haired’s. You’ve um . . . you’ve been here for two days.” He then reached down and pressed a small red button on the bed’s rail. “I’d better let the nurses know you’re awake.”

The nurse came almost immediately, a godsend because Gerard wasn’t sure how long he could stand the awkward silence or the hand on his shoulder. Even now its purpose wasn’t to soothe, but to claim possession. For a moment Gerard felt surprise at not seeing a female enter the room, but then he remembered - the woman’s movement had never happened in this world. They stayed at home and had children. They did not hold down jobs.

“I see the patient’s awake,” the nurse said. He was tall and powerfully built and looked more like a bouncer than someone who worked around the infirm and dying.

“Yeah,” Beecher said. “He just woke up. I called you just like you said.”

The nurse shot Beecher a hard look before turning his full attention to Gerard, gently picking up his wrist to take his pulse. “My name’s Roy. I’m your day shift nurse.” After a brief pause, he asked, “How are you feeling this morning, Gerard?”

He licked at dry, swollen lips and tried to answer, but his throat produced only a small, strangled sound. He cleared it and tried again. This time he was able to form words, albeit still whispered, his throat much too dry for anything else. “Hurts. Sir.”

Roy nodded. “I thought it might.” From a tray beside the bed, he picked up a pitcher and poured a small amount of water into a plastic cup. Holding it up to Gerard’s mouth, he said, “Drink a little. This’ll help with your throat.”

Gerard fastened his lips around the cup’s plastic straw and sipped slowly, the cold water bliss as it slid down his throat.

Roy set the cup away when Gerard was done and placed a thermometer in his left ear. “Something in particular that hurts, Gerard?”

Gerard mulled the question over, then shook his head slowly, mindful of the pain. “It all hurts, sir.” He glanced over at Beecher, who was standing quiet and still a few feet away. He recalled how rage had twisted his features that night to the point that he no longer looked human. He remembered every point of impact, every punch, kick and slap.

“I can give you something for the pain but it’s probably going to make you a little sleepy.”

Already tired despite having just woken up, Gerard could only nod. Sleep sounded really good right now. Actually, oblivion sounded really good, but he would take sleep in its place.

The nurse gave him the painkiller, injecting it directly into his IV, before patting his arm and leaving him alone with Beecher. For several long few minutes, he and Gerard sat together, enveloped in uncomfortable silence. Finally, Beecher cleared his throat. “Well, maybe I’d better get going.”

Gerard, who was no longer in any pain and for whom the edges of the world had started to grow fuzzy and indistinct, nodded in agreement.

Beecher made a move to stand, but then sat back down in the chair he’d been occupying. “Listen, Gerard. About what happened . . . I know that I got a little carried away with punishing you. I have a temper and sometimes it gets out of control and well . . . I shouldn’t have done what I did.” He took a deep breath, running his hand through his hair. “But damn it, I wouldn’t have had to punish you in the first place if you’d have just listened. You’re so fucking stubborn sometimes.”

Gerard wasn’t at all surprised at how Beecher had managed to turn what had started out as an apology into an accusation against him. And now he was getting more and more agitated. He didn’t really think that Beecher would attack him right here in the hospital, but then again, he wouldn’t put it past him. Despite being more asleep than awake, he whispered, “I’m sorry, Master. ”

Beecher placed a hand on his relatively unscathed arm and squeezed. It took everything Gerard had not to fling himself bodily to the floor to get away from him.

“Next time, Way. You need to do better next time. You’re my property, and if I tell you to do something that means do it. You understand? Cause I don’t like doing this. I really don’t.”

The hell you don’t, Beecher. The hell you don’t.

That was Gerard’s last conscious thought before his good eye slipped closed, the drug in his system making it impossible to fight the drowsiness any longer.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The hands are everywhere - pushing him to the floor until he feels imbedded in it. He fights, fiercely, but the hands are stronger, faster. They stroke, they claim, and they hurt.

There are voices - they laugh and they jeer in the dark, spitting out vile words that drip onto his skin like acid.

He begins to scream, louder than their taunts, he screams out gibberish pleas and unintelligible cries until he’s reduced to uttering one word over and over.

No.

No.

“No!”

Gerard’s body shot straight up in bed, his eye wide and searching, his hands flailing until the sharp protest of pain from his ribs forced him to lie back down.

“Easy, Gerard. Easy.”

Gerard looked down at the hand on his arm and flinched. “No,” he whispered, still partially stuck in the dream, still feeling the weight of its violence and hatred.

“Gerard, it’s just me. It’s Roy.”

Gerard’s fear-addled mind struggled to comprehend where he was or what was happening. “Roy?”

“I’m your nurse, remember? You’re in the hospital. You’re safe.”

Gerard didn’t think there was such a thing as safe anymore, it had become a concept too foreign to grasp, but he held his tongue, too busy trying to orient himself to the land of reality while shaking off the last vestiges of the nightmare.

He wiped a shaky hand across his face and looked up to see that Roy wasn’t the only one in the room. To Roy’s left stood an older gentleman who was gazing down at him with schooled impassivity. He wore a long red coat and had a stethoscope around his neck. Gerard could only assume he was the doctor. His presumption was proven correct when the man introduced himself as Dr. Kingsley.

The doctor proceeded to examine him, detailing Gerard’s various injuries as he worked. He told him about the cracked ribs, the fractured wrist and twisted ankle, the broken collarbone, the concussion and the numerous lacerations and contusions.

Gerard turned his head away, feeling nauseous as he listened to the litany of damage to his body. He’d never been hurt like this before. He’d always preferred the indoors to the outdoors, the sedate to the physical. There wasn’t a lot of cause to get injured when you were in your room drawing. Concerts were the exception of course, but he’d never come close to injuries this severe even during the most violent of shows.

Dr. Kingsley took a few steps back, making notations in his chart as he moved. Gerard, thinking he was done, began to relax. His dislike of needles extended to all things medical and he was grateful to be done with the exam.

Dr. Kingsley set the chart aside and placed a hand on Gerard’s knee. “Gerard, I’m sorry, but I have to check your stitches.”

“Stitches?”

“There was some damage from when your master’s friends . . . ” the doctor seemed to falter, stumbling over his words and suddenly looking uncomfortable. “There was some damage from the intercourse.”

Gerard grew pale, his body shaking as he made a weak attempt to push himself away from the doctor. “No.”

“If an infection sets in, things are going to be much worse.”

He whipped his head from side to side, uncaring of the pain that it caused. He couldn’t let anyone touch him there, not after what had happened.

“Gerard, I have to check,” Dr. Kingsley said, seemingly not at all perturbed by the fact that his patient was growing hysterical. “Now, you need to calm down and let me or we’ll have to hold you down. You don’t want that do you?”

He shook his head even harder. “No, but . . . ”

“It won’t take long, Gerard. I promise. You can do this.”

Gerard knew he had no choice, that it was going to happen no matter what , and he knew that he would lose it completely if they had to hold him down. He gave a brief nod, granting his permission before turning his gaze to the ceiling and clutching the sheets tight in his hand.

He wasn’t even aware that his hand had begun to open and close, grasping and twisting the sheets over and over until he felt a warm hand slip into his own. He looked down at the entwined hands and then up to see that Roy was gazing at him sympathetically.

“It’s ok, Gerard. You’re doing fine.”

Gerard blinked, feeling tears slide down the side of his face and pool at his neck.

“Just look at me. Look at me and breathe. Squeeze my hand if you need to.”

Gerard nodded and he did just that, squeezing Roy’s hand with what little strength he had left, pouring all of the hurt and humiliation into the grip.

“That’s good. Now breathe with me. Look at me. Only me.”

It seemed to take forever and with every passing second it became harder and harder to breathe, as if a huge rock lay on his chest, crushing the air from his lungs. Gerard did his best to stay focused on Roy and to think of nothing else but his instructions, but it was so difficult, especially once Dr. Kingsley’s cold, probing fingers started to hurt . . .

When it was finally over the doctor patted him lightly on the thigh and covered him with the sheets. “You did well, Gerard. And you’re healing well, too. No sign of infection.”

Gerard let out a shaky breath and felt his muscles relax. He hadn’t realized it, but his body had been as rigid as stone during the entire ordeal.

“Gerard?”

It was Roy’s voice. Gerard turned toward him. “Yes, sir?”

“You can let go of my hand now.”

Gerard looked down, saw that he did indeed still have a death grip on Roy’s hand. He released it quickly, his hand stuck in a claw shape, fingers painfully bent. He flexed his fingers, trying to get them to loosen up. He froze when he saw that Roy was trying to do the same.

He’d hurt someone with blond hair. He would be in so much trouble, especially if they told Beecher. “I’m sorry, sir,” he said, frightened now, the invasive examination temporarily forgotten.

“Don’t worry about it. You’ve got a good grip but you didn’t break anything.”

“No, I’m sorry.”

“No one here’s angry. Are they, Dr. Kingsley?”

“No, Gerard. No one’s angry. You did just fine.” The doctor began to walk toward the door. “I’ll be back to check on you tomorrow, all right?”

“Yes, sir.”

After the doctor left, Roy touched the top of Gerard’s head briefly. “You did do well. Now try to get some rest, ok?”

Gerard recognized it for the tender gesture that it was. He gaped up at the man who had bestowed it.

“I’ll try, sir.”

Roy paused on his way toward the door. “Just call me Roy.”

And with that he left the room, leaving Gerard to wipe away the drying tears and wonder what the hell had just happened.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Roy Watkins had grown up in a fairly wealthy home with two loving parents, an oftentimes bothersome little sister, two dogs . . . and no slaves. He hadn’t given that last part any thought until he entered grade school and found that most of his friends had slaves in their homes. When he had asked his mother why they didn’t have someone with dark hair in their house, his mother had grown very serious and said, “Because people aren’t property, Roy. It’s not right to own people.”

At that age, everything his parents said was gospel. He went back to school secure in the knowledge that owning people was a bad thing.

In junior high school, they began to teach United States history. Roy learned about the great Strom Marshall and how he had, following the bloody civil war, proclaimed black people to be the source of all the country’s troubles. Wealthy, powerful and charismatic, Marshall had attracted more and more people to his way of thinking. Eventually, he had enough people and money on his side to start eradicating the blacks from United States soil. Soon after, Marshall began to include anyone with any pigmentation to their skin to his list of those who undermined the country. Eventually, after his message of discrimination had been embraced by almost everyone, he added to his list any person with dark hair, calling them dirty mongrels and inferior by nature.

By the time that Marshall passed away from emphysema in 1874, a brilliant young scientist by the name of Ezekiel Kline was able to prove the theory of racial hierarchy and the master race correct. In his findings, he noted several scientific reasons why people with blonde hair were superior to those with darker hair.

Two decades later, after systematically chipping away at the rights of people with dark hair, the Great Purge began. It lasted twelve long, bloody years and by the end, people with blonde hair had stood triumphant over a decimated country.

Back then, Roy, an impressionable 13-year-old, had gone home and told his parents that he was better than people with black hair and that he wanted a slave of his very own.

His parents had not been pleased, to say the least. A stern, long lecture had only been the start of a very unpleasant week.

After high school, Roy went to nursing school, mostly because he wanted to help people. Idealistic and young, he’d wanted to make a difference in the world. After a visit to a hospital for dark-haired’s, he knew what he wanted to do after school.

He took the job at Hope Hospital immediately after graduation, even though there wasn’t much prestige or room for advancement in a hospital that catered only to dark-haired’s.

His parents had been so proud they had cried.

He had seen a lot in the four years that he’d been at Hope. A lot of good, but also a lot of pain and suffering. Most of the time he was able to keep the emotional distance that was essential to working in a hospital. His one Achilles heel however, the one thing he’d never been able to keep at a distance, was when his patient was there because of the violence inflicted on them. Either because their master had gotten a little too zealous in doling out punishment, or because they’d gotten carried away enjoying their “fringe” benefits.

Like what had happened to Gerard Way.

It sickened him to think that Beecher had given Gerard to his friends as if he were nothing more than a toy, then beaten him to a pulp because he had dared to object.

He’d seen a lot of victims of abuse come through these halls, but none had affected him like Gerard had. Roy couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but being around Gerard amplified all of his protective instincts. He wanted to take him away from Beecher and shelter him so that no further harm could come to him.

Which explained why he now stood opposite from Silas Beecher in a hospital corridor, trying his utmost to be civil to the man when what he really wanted to do was smash his face in.

“You want to do what?” Beecher asked.

“I want to buy Gerard,” Roy repeated. He still couldn’t believe he was suggesting this, it went against everything he’d been taught and all he believed in, but it seemed like the only way to get Gerard away from Beecher.

“Why?”

“I just do. Look, I can give you twenty thousand for him. That’s higher than the market value.”

“Twenty thousand?”

Beecher thought it over, weighing the temptation of the money against having Gerard. He’d wanted to own a slave for so long, he’d dreamt about it, but could never really afford it. And then Gerard was all but dropped into his lap. Gerard didn’t always behave as he should, but he was tight and he was so fucking beautiful, especially when his eyes grew wide and fearful or when his skin was flushed from shame or he moaned out in pain . . .

An image of him driving Gerard to his knees flashed before his eyes. It was a memory, not a fantasy, and his cock began to stir.

“No, sorry. I’m keeping him,” he said, already turning away.

Roy grabbed his arm. “No? That’s a lot of money, Mr. Beecher.”

“The answer’s no. And get your hand off me.”

Roy let go. “Sorry. It’s just . . . I can offer you more money. Twenty-five thousand?”

“Why are you so interested in buying him anyway?”

Roy couldn’t tell him, so he just stood there, looking down at his feet and stuttering.

“Yeah, ok,”Beecher said, making to leave.

“Wait . . . ”

“What is the fucking problem?”

“The problem is that maybe if you treated him like a human being, I wouldn’t even have to be talking to you!”

“What did you say?”

Roy backed away, knowing he’d gone too far. “Nothing, I’m sorry.”

“Gerard is mine and I can do whatever the fuck I want with him. And you, you have no right to criticize me or judge me. You’re just a fucking nurse in a hospital for mongrels. What do you know?”

This wasn’t going at all how Roy had pictured. Not only had he not succeeded in helping Gerard, but he’d managed to put his own job in jeopardy. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

Beecher seemed, for the most part, mollified, although he continued to regard Roy with squinted, suspicious eyes. “Yeah, well, just mind your own business next time.”

“Right,” Roy said, walking away before he could do any more damage.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Gerard shifted in the bed, trying to find a comfortable position, knowing there wouldn’t be one. It had been five days since he’d woken up to find himself in the hospital and he still hurt. Not as badly as that first day, but bad enough. The drugs helped, but they didn’t take away the pain completely.

Beecher’s earlier visit hadn’t helped much either. The only saving grace being that he hadn’t stayed long. Gerard suspected that the man simply didn’t know what to do with him if he wasn’t ordering him around, beating him or fucking him. Despite his only being in the room for a few minutes, the place still felt charged, as if the very air was toxic. He wiped gingerly at his mouth where he imagined he could still feel Beecher’s lips against his own. Even now, as horrible as he must look, Beecher couldn’t seem to keep his hands off him.

He finally gave up on finding a good position and lay still. He was both restless and tired, which was never a good combination for him. He was also bored senseless. There was no viewbox in his room; a hospital for dark-haired’s only didn’t warrant them. He’d been about to ask for a book or magazine when he remembered that people with dark hair were not taught to read.

Without anything to occupy his time he slept far too much, and when he wasn’t sleeping he was thinking. He thought a great deal about home and about Frank and about how much he missed them both. Mostly though, his thoughts twisted inward, where they turned morose and bleak. He was self-aware enough to know that he was broken, probably very badly. He felt hollow inside, as if someone had carved out all the good from inside of him, leaving him only with the bad, the tainted and the unclean. He didn’t need a therapist to tell him that the eternal dull ache he felt inside wasn’t a good thing.

Often he found himself craving a drink or a line of coke; craving them so badly that his body cramped from the sheer enormity of want. Other times, he would simply fantasize about taking a sharp knife and running it up his arms, slicing them open, watching the blood run down . . .

This last thought frightened him even as it tempted him. It had been a long time since he had felt such sheer hopelessness. And yet despite the lure of obliteration, he knew he couldn’t act on it, not even once he finally had the means to do so. Frank had promised him that they would see each other again, and Frank never broke his promises. It was a flimsy thing to hang on to, he knew. But it was all he had. For now it seemed to be enough.

A knock came at the door just as he’d turned his head and closed his eyes. It opened to reveal Roy.

Gerard managed a smile; wan, but genuine nonetheless. His nurse, who at first glance had appeared so intimidating, had turned out to be a kind man and the only person with blond hair who treated him like a human being.

“Hey, Roy.”

Roy returned the greeting, but did not smile. He seemed troubled, frowning as he sat down in the room’s only chair.

“Is something wrong?” Gerard asked.

“I spoke to the doctor earlier.”

“And?”

“And he’s planning to release you tomorrow, Gerard.”

The words might as well have been a fist, and Gerard felt, for a frighteningly long moment, like he couldn’t draw breath. “No,” he said, forcing the word out on an exhale.

“I’m sorry, Gerard. I really am.”

He reached out and grabbed Roy’s arm. “Don’t make me go back to him. Don’t make me go back there. Please.”

“It’s not up to me. There’s nothing I can do. I’m sorry.”

“You could . . . you could buy me,” he said, the desperation bright and alive in his voice. “Is that how it works? You could buy me and then I’d be yours. I’d be good, I swear. You wouldn’t regret it, Roy, I promise.”

“Gerard . . . you don’t think I’ve tried that?”

“What? Buying me?”

“I talked to Mr. Beecher this morning and I offered to buy you. I’m not rich, but I have some money saved away.”

“He said no?”

“He refused. Flat out refused.”

“Of course he did. Why would he give up such an easy fuck?” Gerard spat.

“Gerard . . . ”

“I can’t go back, Roy. You don’t know what it’s like, being his.”

“I don’t want to see you go back to him any more than you do.”

“Roy, I can’t go back there. I can’t.”

“Gerard . . . ”

He wasn’t even aware that his voice was pitching to hysterical as he began to shout. “He gave me to them! He gave me to them like I was a blow up doll! ‘Here, play with Gerard. You can do whatever you want to him. He doesn’t care.’ He gave me to them like I didn’t even fucking matter!”

He was shouting now, and crying, and somewhere along the line he’d pushed himself up so that he was sitting, his hand clawing at Roy’s arm. Roy moved to the edge of the bed and grasped Gerard’s shoulders, bringing him in close.

At first, Gerard flinched. A Pavlovian reaction, he had started to associate a blond man touching him with pain, but he relaxed soon enough, once he realized that the strong arms around him meant him no harm.

“You don’t know. You have no idea,” he said, his voice muffled by Roy’s chest.

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“I’m so scared. I don’t want to go back.”

Roy ran a hand along Gerard’s back, mindful of the bruises he knew were there. He whispered his words against the shell of Gerard’s ear. “I know. I’m sorry.”

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sitting in the one of the hospital’s wheelchairs, Gerard watched as Roy carefully placed his feet into the stirrups.

“Roy?”

Roy looked up.

“I, um . . . I wanted to . . . well . . . ”

“What is it, Gerard?”

“It’s just that . . . you’re the only person that’s been nice to me here. You’re the only one that’s treated me like a human being.”

“Gerard, you don’t have to–”

“I don’t know how to thank you. I don’t. Nothing I could ever say would be good enough.”

“Hey, it’s ok, Gerard.”

“I just wish I could thank you. You don’t know . . . ”

“You don’t have to thank me, ok? I did those things because, well, you’re easy to be nice to.”

Gerard snorted. “Try telling that to Beecher.”

Cupping Gerard’s cheek with his hand, he said, “Be good. Listen and do what he says and you’ll be fine.”

It was a lie, they both knew it, but Gerard nodded nonetheless. “I’ll try.”

“You’ll be fine. I know you will.”

Another lie.

Gerard nodded again and tried to smile. He failed miserably. “I know.”

Roy stood and brushed his fingers over Gerard’s unkempt hair. Moving behind the wheelchair, he gripped the bars tightly and began to maneuver it toward the door.

Gerard saw Beecher as soon as they passed the threshold. He was leaning up against the wall near the nurses’ station, straightening when he saw them approaching.

Gerard wondered, as they drew nearer and nearer, why he wasn’t afraid or sad or worried or any of the other dozens of emotions he should be feeling. The truth was, he didn’t feel much of anything except for a sense of fatalistic destiny.

He was going home to Beecher.

And he felt absolutely nothing.


	11. Chapter 11

The first time that Sheridan lost his battle with his libido, the first time he’d spread Frank’s legs apart and entered him slowly, Frank had cried. He hadn’t begun to sob uncontrollably or had anything even approaching hysterics. Instead the tears had come silent and slow, his breathing pattern barely even changing except for the occasional gasp of pain.

Afterward, as those slow, silent tears had soaked the bed, Sheridan had held him close, running a hand through his hair as he told him over and over how beautiful and special he was.

Frank did not cry the second time it happened, nor the third, nor any of the dozens of times thereafter when Sheridan drifted into his room at night to indulge in his rights as a slave owner.

But it wasn’t always about sex with Sheridan. Sometimes all they did was talk; Sheridan clutching Frank’s hands in his own as he told him about the pressures of being the mayor, or his ambitions for governor, or about his loveless marriage. Sometimes Sheridan would stagger in, looking tired and haggard, and gesture toward the guitar, and Frank would pick it up and play, singing softly while Sheridan listened.

It wasn’t always about sex, but tonight it was. Which was all right, because Frank had long since stopped caring anyway.

Rebecca had been right about one thing, Sheridan always tried to make sure that he derived pleasure from the act. Even now, as his body moved in time with Sheridan’s thrusts, he could feel the man hitting that spot inside of him, the one that made his body shiver and his legs shake and drew moan after moan from his throat.

He no longer hated himself for his body’s natural reaction to the things Sheridan did to him. If anything, he had started to feel a sense of entitlement to it. So when Sheridan began to move even faster while haphazardly stroking him, he responded by wrapping his legs around Sheridan’s body and clutching at his back, urging him on by his actions.

It didn’t take long for Frank’s body to stiffen, his back arching as he threw his head back and groaned out broken prayers laced with obscenities.

Sheridan came soon after, his open mouth against Frank’s. Frank swallowed every groan, every gasp, every sigh until both men were spent.

They took a few moments to come down off the high, allowing their heart rate and breathing to slow before they dared to move. Finally, Sheridan shifted and pushed himself off of Frank with great care. He turned on his side, propping himself up on one elbow and gazing down at Frank with a mischievous glint in his eye.

“I have a surprise for you,” he said.

Frank placed an arm underneath his head, angling it to look at Sheridan. “Oh?”

“Mm hm,” Sheridan answered with a teasing smile.

Frank waited, but when nothing more was forthcoming and the enigmatic smile remained on Sheridan’s face, his curiosity began to grow. “What is it, sir?” he asked.

The smile lengthened into a an almost wicked grin. “I’ve arranged for Gerard to spend the entire day here this Saturday. With you.”

Frank couldn’t believe his ears, certain that he’d heard wrong, that this was some sort of aural mirage. “What?”

“I said that I’m bringing Gerard over for the day.”

“Are you serious?” he asked. “That’s only four days away.”

“Of course I am. I’d never lie to you.”

Frank sat up, his eyes very wide as began to understand that this was real, that what he’d been dreaming of and hoping for was finally going to happen. A warm feeling of joy and electric excitement surged within him and for a moment he felt like the old Frank, filled with abundant energy and ready to take on the world. He pounced on Sheridan, wrapping his arms around him, placing quick, sloppy kisses all along his face and neck.

“Oh my God. Oh God, thank you! Thank you, sir. Thank you!”

Sheridan chuckled, reveling in the affection for a moment before pulling away and holding Frank at arms’ length. “Does this mean that you’re happy?”

Frank laughed, but he was crying too and that didn’t make any sense at all because he hadn’t cried in months. He had thought that part of him dead, and yet here he was, the tears literally streaming down his face. “Yeah, this means that I’m happy. You have no idea.”

“Good.” Sheridan used his thumb to wipe away a single tear before bringing Frank in for a long, deliberate kiss. “Good.”

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

After more than four months of waiting, four days shouldn’t have been a big deal, but to Frank they dragged on indefinitely, an unbearably long stretch of time that seemed to have no end.

When Saturday finally came around, Frank was the first one out of bed, the first one showered, the first one dressed.

He met Sheridan, along with two of his aides, right outside the front doors of the mansion. He felt dizzily drunk from the excitement as he bounced on the balls of his feet like a little kid.

His heart skipped a beat when he saw a familiar black car drive through the tall, wrought-iron gates of the property. His heart all but jumped through his chest when the car stopped in the middle of the circular driveway and the back door opened to reveal the car’s passenger.

Frank’s very first thought was that the man that was stepping out of the car was not Gerard. He discarded the thought immediately, it was obviously Gerard, just not the Gerard that he knew. The Gerard he knew was confident and epic, managing to stand tall even when he felt uncomfortable or out of place. The man he saw before him reminded him of a much younger Gerard, the one who had to drink himself stupid because he had no faith in himself.

It was evident in every line of his body, the way he seemed to shrink in on himself as if he wanted to hide from the world. Somehow, Gerard had regressed six years in less than five months.

As Frank looked on, the mayor’s chauffeur placed a hand on Gerard’s back to guide him forward, a touch that Gerard visibly flinched from.

“He looks scared,” Frank said.

“He’s probably just nervous,” Sheridan said.

Frank nodded, chewing on his nail as he watched Gerard draw closer. Adding to his list of worries, he noted that there was a slight limp to Gerard’s walk, that he was clearly favoring one leg over the other. He also noticed how thin Gerard looked, like he’d been experimenting with some crazy, fad diet.

Gerard was about midway to them when he lifted his arm and gave a small, hesitant wave, a gesture that was so quintessentially him that it twisted Frank’s insides to the point of pain. Frank ran forward, covering the distance between them in a matter of seconds and all but throwing himself into Gerard’s open, waiting arms, almost knocking them both down in the process.

Frank hugged him, holding him tighter than he’d ever held anyone in his life. “Oh my God, Gee. Oh my God.”

“Can’t. Breathe. Frank,” Gerard said with a small laugh. His actions belied his words however; he was holding on just as tightly.

Frank loosened his grip but did not let go, pulling away just enough to look at Gerard’s face. “Fuck, I missed you man.”

“I missed you. You don’t know how much.”

Placing a hand on Gerard’s cheek, Frank leaned in close enough to kiss. “Are you ok?”

“I’m fine.”

A lie. One so obvious, Frank was surprised that Gerard’s nose didn’t spontaneously start growing. He was about to press it when he felt the presence of another at his side. Turning his head, he saw that Sheridan now stood beside them. His hands slid away from Gerard’s body as he took a step back.

“Hello, Gerard.”

“Hello, sir.”

“Are you ready to spend the day with us?”

Hands clasped in front of him, eyes downcast, Gerard was the perfect picture of submission. “Yes, sir. And thank you for letting me come here.”

“It’s my pleasure.”

Frank watched the exchange in silence until he saw there was no more to say. “Thank you, sir,” he added, reaching up and kissing Sheridan softly on the cheek.

“You’re welcome, Frankie.”

Frank wasn’t expecting the soft kiss on his lips, the affection on display for everyone to see, but he did not startle or try to pull away.

“You two better get started. Time’s wasting.”

When he turned back, he saw that Gerard was watching him intently. He shrugged, trying to convey that it was no big deal. Then he grabbed Gerard by the wrist and pulled him away. “Come on.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

They spent quite some time walking around the grounds and through the house. It seemed that everybody wanted to meet Gerard, the man that Frank had gone on and on about for months.

After what seemed like hours, Frank was able to pull Gerard away from everyone and take him up to his room. They both gravitated toward the bed where they sat down, cross-legged, facing each other.

Although they’d been together for the better part of the morning, to Frank it felt as if he were laying eyes on Gerard for the first time. The day was already passing too quickly, although he knew it had barely started. Taking a deep breath, Frank took a moment to stare, letting himself get lost in the delicate curves of Gerard’s face, as if to commit to memory every feature. He had never realized it before, not really having had occasion to look so closely or intently, but Gerard was really quite beautiful.

The thought took him by surprise and he found himself blushing.

“What?” Gerard asked. “Do I have something on my face?”

“It’s just . . . I’m having one of those moments where I’m not really believing this is real, you know?”

“Yeah, I know.”

Frank reached up and carded his fingers through Gerard’s hair, fingers catching the ends. “Your hair’s getting long.”

Gerard grabbed it and gave it a quick tug. “He doesn’t let me cut it. He likes it long.”

“Beecher?”

“Yeah.”

The opening was there and could not be ignored. Frank knew that he could put off the question no longer. “How’s he been treating you?”

“If you want to know if he fucks me, Frank, then just ask.” The tone in which Gerard spoke the words was neither bitter nor angry, and yet Frank flinched all the same.

“I’m sorry.”

“No, I’m sorry,” Gerard said hastily. “I don’t know why I said that.”

“We don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.”

Gerard exhaled, the sound loud against the stillness of the room. “Look, it’s . . . it’s pretty much what you think. With him, I mean.”

“You know you’re all I’ve thought about, Gerard. You and that . . . that asshole, and what he was doing to you.”

“Hey, I’m tougher than I look. Jersey boy, remember?” Gerard said. He attempted a smile, but it was brittle and broke apart before it could touch his eyes.

“Yeah,” Frank said, swallowing hard to fight the sudden urge to cry. “Yeah.”

“Anyway,” Gerard said after a beat. “What about you?”

“Me?”

“I saw the way Sheridan kissed you.” He leaned forward like a schoolgirl about to impart a secret. “What does he take from you, Frank?”

Frank bowed his head, unable to meet Gerard’s eyes. “He’s never done that before. In front of people. It’s always at night. We . . . he . . . ”

“Does he hurt you? Does he make it hurt?”

His head snapped up. “No. No, it’s not like that. He’s not like that.”

“You can tell me the truth.”

“I am. Gerard, I swear. He’s not like that.”

Gerard breathed a sigh of relief as his body sagged. “I prayed every single fucking night that you weren’t being hurt.”

“You prayed for me?”

“I wasn’t sure if it was working, but it was the only thing I could do.”

“Gerard, you’re . . . ” Frank stopped, trying to come up with the right word. Wonderful, amazing, extraordinary all came to mind but they were all so trite, none of them even came close to describing the man sitting in front of him. He finally shook his head, admitting defeat with a smile before resuming his staring.

“What?” Gerard asked, uncomfortable under the intense scrutiny.

“It’s just so fucking good to have you back, man!” Overwhelmed by emotions that he would never dare put a name to, he threw himself forward, landing hard on Gerard and knocking him onto his back. It felt just like the old days, when he’d jump on his band mates simply because the sheer, nervous energy in his body needed an outlet.

“Ow . . . Frank . . . ”

He ignored the ‘ow’ from Gerard (that was normal) and when Gerard tried to get up, he pushed him back down. He wasn’t even sure what he meant to do. All he knew was that he was running on instinct and adrenaline and he didn’t want Gerard to get up. He wanted him close. He needed him close.

“Get off of me.”

When Gerard lifted his hands and pushed at Frank’s chest, he grabbed Gerard’s wrists and pinned them down to the mattress. “I missed you so fucking much, man. Every day, I was so scared for you.”

“Frank, let me up. Stop.”

“Just hold on a second.”

He wasn’t aware that he’d tightened his hold on Gerard’s wrists or that Gerard’s breathing had begun to quicken, his words tinged with just the slightest bit of hysteria.

“Frank . . . ”

“Gee, chill.”

“No! Stop! Stop, please!”

It was only when he heard Gerard pleading with him, his voice shrill from terror, that Frank realized they were no longer playing. He let go abruptly and fell back on the bed, scrambling backward until he almost tipped over the edge. As he watched, Gerard sat up and pressed himself against the headboard, cringing and rubbing his wrists.

“Gerard?” he whispered. He reached a tentative hand out, realized it was trembling and pulled it back.

“I told you to stop.”

“I’m sorry. I wasn’t even thinking. I’m so sorry.”

Gerard turned his head and Frank could clearly see a trace of fear in his eyes. It killed Frank to know he was the one who had put it there. “It’s ok,” Gerard muttered. “I shouldn’t have freaked.”

But it wasn’t ok. Gerard was still clinging to the headboard like it was his protector. Frank could only imagine what had happened to him to make him react like that.

“No, it’s not,” he said as he scooted forward. “No, it’s not. I’m sorry. Please forgive me?”

He held his breath as the seconds ticked by in silence. Finally, he could see the tense lines of Gerard’s body relaxing and a wary smile forming on his face.

“Yeah, you’re forgiven. Of course you are.”

“Well, come away from the headboard. You two are starting to make me jealous.”

Gerard laughed nervously but shifted all the same, uncurling his body and inching forward on the bed. That’s when Frank noticed that his shirt, a simple white button down, had been pulled to the side during their struggle and the large bruise that was now very visible.

“What is that?”

“What?”

“That. There on your shoulder. The huge ass bruise.”

Gerard tugged at his shirt, hiding it from view. “It’s nothing.”

“Nothing? No, come on. What the hell is that?”

“I told you it’s nothing. I fell down the other day, that’s all.”

“That’s a weird place to fall, Gerard.”

“Yeah, well, I’m clumsy.”

“Let me just see it.”

Frank knew he had won when Gerard sighed dramatically and rolled his eyes. “You’re not going to let it alone, are you?”

“Wasn’t planning on it, no.”

Gerard shook his head but pulled his shirt to the side, exposing his collarbone. The bruise was large and very dark against Gerard’s pale skin, obscenely so.

“Ok, you saw it,” Gerard said right before covering it back up with nimble fingers.

But Frank wasn’t about to let the subject die. “There’s more under there.”

“No, there’s–”

“Gerard. Don’t. Don’t hide this from me.”

This time Gerard’s sigh of defeat was so faint it was barely audible. “I didn’t want you to see.”

“Why?”

It was a stupid question and Frank regretted it the moment it sprang from his mouth. Of course he knew why Gerard didn’t want to say anything. If their roles had been reversed, he would have tried to keep it hidden. “Please,” he said.

“Ok, yeah.” Gerard closed his eyes, leaned his head back and started to unbutton his shirt. It was a martyr’s pose and for a moment Frank felt he was looking upon a sacred marble sculpture rather than a living, breathing person.

Gerard finished unbuttoning the shirt, letting it slip off of his shoulders. He dropped his head but did not open his eyes. “This what you wanted to see?” he asked.

Shifting so he could take in the back as well as the front, Frank gazed upon the damaged canvas that was Gerard’s body. The bruises were littered across his skin, each one telling a dark and horrible story. Some of them were obviously fresh, but some were clearly older, already fading into sickly greens and yellows. The bruises weren’t the only things marring Gerard’s body, however. There were welts as well. And scars. Scars Frank knew had never been there before.

Frank lifted his gaze and saw that Gerard’s eyes were open, watching him with a distant sadness.

“Beecher did this?” Frank asked.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“He gets angry with me sometimes.”

“What? Why?”

Gerard began to button the shirt. Frank winced at the thought of the fabric touching any inch of that damaged skin. “I can never seem to do things right. And even when I do, he always manages to find a reason anyway . . . ”

“I didn’t know,” Frank said. “I thought you were all right. He never told me.”

“God, Frank, don’t cry.”

Frank wiped at his face, surprised to find that Gerard was right. He was crying. “Jesus, he’s killing you,” he said.

“I’m not dead yet.”

“Not dead . . . Jesus, Gee.” He choked out a hollow laugh. “You’re going to be if this keeps up. Jesus.”

“I don’t want to talk about this anymore. I mean, it is what it is. Talking about it isn’t going to make it better.”

“But, Gerard– ”

Gerard shook his head and turned his attention to the guitar in the corner. “Where’d you get it?”

“Huh?” Frank asked, turning his head to look. “Oh. Master got it for me a few months ago.”

“Will you play me something?”

The last thing in the world Frank wanted to do was play. He wanted to talk about what he had seen, he wanted to avenge Gerard, he wanted to erase the marks, he wanted to be angry. But Gerard wanted him to play and he could not refuse him anything. Not now. Not ever, really. “If that’s what you want - yeah. What do you want me to play?”

“Something . . . something sad and sweet.”

“If I play something sad and sweet I’ll start bawling like a fucking baby.”

“And why is that a bad thing?”

Frank picked up the guitar and played for Gerard, something sad and sweet. By the final note, they were both crying.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

They ate dinner in the common room along with everyone else, staying a while afterward before sneaking off to Frank’s room. All too cognizant of the ticking clock and their approaching deadline, Frank walked to the bed and lay down on it.

“Come here,” he whispered, indicating the space next to him.

When Gerard hesitated, Frank added, “You trust me.” It wasn’t a question but a statement, made with quiet confidence.

Gerard nodded and slipped onto the bed, and Frank wrapped his arms around him and held on as tightly as he dared.

They lay like that for a long time, enveloped by silence and their grief until the door creaked open.

“Gerard, your master’s here,” Sheridan announced as he and Michael, one of his aides, stepped inside.

As Beecher walked into the room, Frank felt Gerard shiver against him.

“Ready to go home, Gerard?” Beecher asked.

“Yes, Master.”

Gerard had sat up, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed when Frank clamped a restraining hand around his arm. “No, Gerard. You’re not going.”

“What?” Gerard and Beecher asked simultaneously.

“He’s not going with you, Beecher.”

“Excuse me?”

“I saw what you’ve done to him, you sick bastard. He isn’t going home with you. You are not touching him again.”

“You need to shut your mouth, mongrel or I’ll do it for you!” Beecher shouted as he stepped forward.

Frank moved too, jumping off the bed and starting toward Beecher. “Come on, then!”

Suddenly, Michael was behind him, restraining him with more force than Frank would have given him credit for.

“Frank, you need to calm down,” Sheridan said.

“He’s a monster, sir!” he said as he struggled against Michael. “He’s a fucking monster.”

Gerard, who had up until now been watching the entire exchange in stunned silence, finally stirred. He could see that Frank was only seconds away from breaking free from the man’s restraining arms. He knew, without a doubt, that Frank’s next move would be to attack Beecher in a mad frenzy. If he did that, Frank might as well hang a noose around his neck and jump from the nearest tall building.

Moving faster than he’d moved in a while, Gerard jumped in front of Frank and placed his hands on either side of his friend’s face.

“Frank, listen! Stop!” he shouted. “This isn’t helping me. This isn’t helping.”

“What? Get out of my way, Gerard,” Frank said, still struggling.

Gerard persisted, dropping his voice. “You have to let me go. I have to go. You know that.”

Frank stilled and stared up into Gerard’s face. “But he’ll . . . ”

“He’s my master. I have to go.”

“No,” Frank said in a broken whisper.

Gerard looked at the man who was still holding on to Frank, and nodded. “It’s ok now, sir.”

Michael glanced at Sheridan, getting his non-verbal approval before letting go of Frank’s arms and stepping back.

“It’s all right, Frank,” Gerard whispered. “It’s all right to let me go.”

“No, it’s not.”

Gerard closed the small distance between them and, placing his hands on Frank’s back, brought their bodies together. “Don’t be scared, Frank,” he murmured, so softly that no one else but Frank could hear. “We’ll find each other again. I promise. This isn’t how it ends.”

“You can’t throw my words back at me like that.”

“Those words are my gospel. They were the only things that kept me going sometimes.”

From somewhere behind them came the sound of Beecher’s harsh voice. “He insulted me. That mongrel insulted me.”

“My apologies, Mr. Beecher. He’s not usually like this, I can assure you.”

“Yeah, well, looks like you need to control your bitch a little better, Mr. Mayor. I could take care of that right fucking now, show you how it’s done.”

“I’ll handle it, Mr. Beecher. And I’d prefer if you didn’t use that word.”

“Yeah, well, all I’m saying is that you don’t see Gerard acting up that way. My slave knows his place.”

“Like I said, Frank’s never behaved this way before. I can’t imagine what’s causing this, but it will be addressed.”

Beecher scoffed. “Fine. Whatever. But your mongrel tries anything like that again and I’ll beat his ass myself.”

“Mr. Beecher . . . ”

“Fucking come here, Gerard. We’re getting out of here.”

Gerard pulled away at the sound of his master’s voice, leaving Frank trying to clutch at empty air. As soon as he was close enough, Beecher grabbed Gerard’s arm and began to pull him away.

And as Frank watched, Gerard was taken from him yet again.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Beecher was so furious he was shaking and Gerard couldn’t have cared less. He’d seen rages of this magnitude from him before and they no longer had the power to frighten him. Not even now when a future beating was all but written in stone. The only fear that Gerard felt now was for Frank.

Gerard had stopped Frank before he could do irreparable damage, but his outburst still deserved some kind of punishment. He could only hope that he was right about Sheridan and that he, in his own twisted way, actually cared about Frank. He could only hope that the affection would cause Sheridan to temper the punishment.

Beecher threw open the car door as soon as they reached it. “Get in the fucking car.”

Gerard did, sitting obediently and waiting for the inevitable.

“So, did you enjoy that little scene in there?” Beecher asked once he too was seated. His voice was deceptively calm, but Gerard had become an expert in detecting the storm lying just beneath the surface.

“No, Master.”

“No? You sure? You weren’t laughing the entire time?”

“No, Ma–”

Before he could finish, Beecher lashed out, his fist catching Gerard hard across the face.

“Don’t lie to me.”

Gerard’s hand covered his mouth, muffling his voice. “I’m not. I swear, Master.”

He grabbed Gerard’s hair, using it to yank his head to the side. “No? You sure?”

Tears of pain welled up in Gerard’s eyes. “I’m sure.” He didn’t bother saying anything else. His words were being largely discounted anyway. The whole point here was to make him suffer because Beecher had been embarrassed.

Beecher pushed him away with enough force that he almost hit the car’s window.

“We’ll finish this at home.”

Gerard rubbed at the sore spot on his head. He wouldn’t have been surprised to find that Beecher had yanked some of his hair right out.

“Yes, Master.”

Beecher threw the car into drive and sped out of the driveway, causing the tires to let out an obnoxious squeal. As he drove them further and further away, Gerard pressed his forehead to the window, his lips moving soundlessly, the words to a very old prayer only audible in his head.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Sheridan walked back inside Frank’s room after convincing his aide that he would be safe alone with his slave.

He found Frank huddled in the corner, his knees drawn up to his chest, his head resting against the wall. From Sheridan’s vantage point, he looked like a small, broken child.

He walked over to Frank and crouched down in front of him, noting that Frank was staring off into the distance, his pupils dark, his eyes unfocused.

He should be angry with Frank for what he had done, but he wasn’t. Not in the slightest. If anything, he was worried. Worried about what had caused the outburst in the first place, and worried about what he was seeing in front of him now. Frank had managed to become his favorite in a very short time and although he hadn’t given it much active thought before, seeing him like this now, he realized that he really cared for him. Maybe a little too much.

“Frank?”

If Frank heard him, he gave no indication.

“Frank, what you did today–”

“Do what you have to do, sir. I don’t care.”

Sheridan gave a deep sigh. “I don’t want to have to punish you, but you leave me no choice.”

“It doesn’t matter. I understand.”

“Oh, Frankie,” he started to say, reaching a hand to Frank’s shoulder. But Frank saw the movement out of the corner of his eye and came to abrupt, violent life. He sat up, pushing away from Sheridan, his voice shrill as he shouted. “No! You do not get to touch me! You do not get to touch me!”

“Frank? What?”

“All this time, I let you do these things to me, whatever you wanted! I never fought you! I did anything you wanted so you would tell me about Gerard! And you told me Gerard was fine! All that time you told me he was fine, you were lying to me!”

“He was fine. He is fine.”

“You liar! Why are you still lying?”

In his most reasonable, soothing voice, Sheridan said, “Frank, calm down. Calm down and tell me what’s wrong with Gerard.”

Frank’s voice dropped to a normal volume, but the anguish in it was palpable. “Don’t. Please don’t do this. Don’t play this game with me.”

“Listen. You need to listen to me. I did not lie to you. I would never do that. Every time I asked Silas about Gerard, I was told that he was fine, that he was adjusting really well. I never had any reason to believe otherwise.”

“No . . . ”

“Besides, if I was lying, why would I bring him here?”

“But . . . ”

“Tell me what’s wrong with Gerard. Tell me so I can understand.”

Frank rubbed at his face, his hands catching in his hair and yanking at it. “I saw the bruises. He didn’t want me to see them, but I did.”

“What bruises?”

“Beecher beats the shit out of him. For anything and everything. And when he . . . when he takes him, he makes it bad. He’s not like you. He makes it hurt.”

“Frankie, are you sure?”

“Yes, of course.”

Sheridan went silent. Whether or not Gerard was being mistreated wasn’t his concern. What a man did with his slaves in his own house was his own business. Except . . . except that it seemed to be hurting Frankie. “I’m not really sure what to say,” he said honestly.

“You don’t have to say anything, sir. There’s nothing to say.” Frank bowed his head. “There’s nothing to say.”

“Frank . . . ”

“You have to punish me, I know, sir. Go ahead. I don’t care.”

It took Sheridan a moment to realize that Frank was crying, much like the first time they had slept together, so silently he might never have known had he not felt the salty tears against the pillow.

God, how he hated to see him cry.

“Come here. We’ll discuss punishment tomorrow. But for now, just come here, all right?”

For a long while, he wasn’t sure if Frank would respond. But finally, he pushed himself away from the wall and into Sheridan’s waiting arms.

He brushed Frank’s hair away from his forehead, marveling for the umpteenth time at the boy’s beauty, at the perfect combination of fragility and strength. “It’s going to be all right, Frankie. You’ll see.”

But even as the words slid past his lips, Sheridan had to wonder if they sounded as hollow to Frank as they did to him.


	12. Chapter 12

Frank stood in the center of the dank basement and shivered against the chill. He was not afraid, although it wasn’t too long ago that he’d been in a room not unlike this one, being tortured for answers that he could not give. The entire scenario brought back memories that he would rather have forgotten. But he was not afraid.

Since last night, when Gerard had walked back into Beecher’s grasping hands, he felt like he’d been stuck on pause and all he could do was relive that horrible moment over and over again. There was no room inside of him for fear, no room for even anger. There was no room for anything but an unbearable, dazed sadness.

He could feel Sheridan watching him from the other side of the room, and he lifted blank, expressionless eyes to meet his gaze.

“I don’t want to do this.”

Frank nodded.

“But you threatened him, Frankie. You almost attacked him. I can’t let this go.”

Frank nodded again. This had all been explained to him earlier. He wasn’t sure why Sheridan felt the need to justify it to him. He certainly had no problem with what was about to happen. If anything, he welcomed the pain, feeling that it was the least he could endure after all that Gerard had been through. “I know, sir.”

Sheridan looked at him for a long moment before speaking, his voice turning uncharacteristically cold. “All right, let’s just get this done. Frank, take off your shirt and face that wall. You’ll want to brace yourself against it.” Then he turned toward the man who would deliver the punishment, Elias, his overseer. “Do twenty.”

And then Sheridan turned around and walked up the basement steps without another word.

Frank didn’t even bother watching him go. He slipped off his shirt and let it drop to the floor, then walked to the wall indicated and placed the palms of his hands flat against it.

“Punishment is twenty lashes with the belt. I will count them for you so you will know how many you have left. Do you understand?” Elias asked.

“Yes, sir.”

The first crack of the belt sounding against his skin was deafening, infinitely worse than the sting it brought, and Frank had to admit to disappointment. He needed this to hurt. He needed to feel some of Gerard’s pain. By the time the belt struck for the sixth time, the pain was there and he was glad for it. It was a cheap sort of absolution, temporary and transitory, but he embraced it nonetheless. By the time the belt struck him for the twentieth and final time, he was panting harshly, his forehead pressed so hard against the wall he was certain it would leave an indent in the plaster. And yet he felt no better, and he realized that his sin, the sin of ignorance, could not be so easily forgiven.

“You’re done. Come away from the wall.”

He did as he was told, surprised when he staggered, his legs weak and rubbery. “Whoa,” he muttered, holding out a hand for balance.

Elias caught him before he could fall to the ground. “Easy, Frank. Give your body a minute.”

That seemed advisable, considering that his back felt as if someone had lit it on fire and that his stomach was lurching uneasily.

He took deep, steadying breaths to quell the urge to vomit. Then he straightened up with Elias’ help.

“Ready to go upstairs?” Elias asked.

“Yes, sir.”

They began to move toward the staircase together, Elias staying close in case he was needed.

Frank paused when they reached the first step. “Thank you, sir.”

Elias looked at him quizzically. “For?”

For granting me absolution, even if it wasn’t real, even if it didn’t last.

He almost spoke the words aloud, but he knew Elias wouldn’t understand and he’d never be able to explain.

“Just . . . thank you.”

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

It was a few hours later when Rebecca came into Frank’s room and found him lying face down on the bed, gazing off into nothingness. She explained, as she sat down next to him, that she’d been instructed to use a salve that would help with the pain.

“I don’t want it to feel better. I want it to hurt,” he muttered.

“You don’t mean that.”

“Don’t I?”

“Frank, my orders were to put it on you.”

He relented, not wanting to get her in trouble because he was being stubborn. “Fine. Do whatever you have to do.”

She was infinitely gentle, rubbing the cream onto his back in lazy circles. It burned at first, adding to the fire still tingling on his skin, but it didn’t take long before the cream turned cool and soothing.

“You know what’s funny?” he said as he turned his head to look at her. “I insult a freeman and I get this. Meanwhile, Beecher gets to beat Gerard’s ass every day for any stupid reason and no one bats an eye. No one even cares.”

“I know, Frank,” she said, her hands still busily applying the cream. “But that’s just how things are. The sooner you accept it . . . ”

“I can’t accept it! That’s just it. I can’t. And I don’t see how you can either. I don’t say how any of us can.”

She pulled her hands away, wiping them off on a small towel she had brought with her. “Because anytime any of us ever try to do something to stop it or change it . . . ” Her voice cracked before disappearing completely.

He turned, propping himself on his elbow, thinking her crying. “Becca?”

But he had been wrong. There was no sadness in her eyes; only fury, steely and cold.

“You really want to know why?” she asked, the fury sliding into her voice. “Let me tell you a story, then. Once upon a time, there was a boy named Christian. And he was beautiful, inside and out. He was giving and loving and funny and . . . just wonderful. And just knowing him made life good. And one day he turned his smile on me and I . . . I felt like the luckiest girl alive.”

“Becca . . . ”

“But there was a problem. We weren’t authorized to breed. So, we ended up spending all our free time sneaking around just to see each other. But that all stopped when master found out. And he was . . . angry doesn’t even begin to describe it. So he dragged me out to the front lawn and started whipping me right then and there.”

“What? Why?”

“Because Christian and I hadn’t been sanctioned. We hadn’t been authorized to be together. And master was a cruel man, Frank. Cruel and sadistic.”

“What happened?”

“Christian stepped in. And master turned his anger on him. All freemen are taught to recognize when shock is setting in. So they can stop, so they don’t permanently damage their property. But master didn’t stop.”

“He killed him,” Frank said flatly, his heart heavy for someone he had never known. He sat up and reached out to her, touching her shoulder. “Becca, I’m so sorry. I had no idea.”

Seconds ticked by, lengthening into minutes, but at last her face softened, the lines of anger melting away before finally disappearing altogether. “It’s all right. It was a long time ago. I don’t even know why I told you.”

“Your master - it wasn’t Sheridan?”

“No. Master Sheridan would never do anything like that.”

“What happened to him then?”

She shrugged. “He paid a huge fine and his slaves were taken away from him. That’s how I came to be with master. So, I guess it all worked out in the end, huh?” She was trying for a light tone; not really succeeding.

“You loved him, didn’t you?”

“I think so, yeah.” She paused, then took a deep breath. “Like you love Gerard.”

“Oh, I don’t . . . I mean, I do, but . . . I do love him. Just not like that.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I just assumed. I mean, the way you talk about him. And you were so happy when he was here.”

“Gerard’s just a friend.”

“Of course he is. I didn’t mean to imply anything else.” She stood to leave. “I’d better let you get some rest.”

“Becca,” he called to her. “I’m really sorry. About what happened to you.”

She managed a tiny smile. “And I’m really sorry about what’s happening to you.”

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Seven days had passed since Beecher had dragged Gerard away. Seven days since Frank had begun to spiral into a despairing depression. Every day, Sheridan would wake up, thinking to himself that today was that day that Frank would snap out of it and come back to his old self. And every day Frank would be a little more lethargic, his face a little paler, the circles under his eyes a little darker.

Watching Frank was like watching someone succumbing to consumption and standing by helplessly as they literally wasted away.

On the morning of the seventh day, Jack Sheridan had enough. He got dressed, made a call to the prison followed by a few calls to cancel all of his appointments for the day.

Then he got into his car and drove until the mansion in his rearview mirror was reduced to an insignificant speck.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Gerard had always thought of himself as a night owl, prone to bouts of great creativity long after the sun had gone down. It was his time - a time of solitude and mystery and peace. Lately, however, morning had come to replace night as Gerard’s favorite part of the day.

It was morning, not night, when Beecher was at work and that hours stretched before him, time uninterrupted and safe.

It was autumn now, the air turned crisp and biting, so he grabbed a jacket, one that Beecher had bought for him only two weeks before, and wrapped it around himself. Then he picked up his cup and prepared to walk outside.

He’d fallen into the routine of curling up in a chair in the backyard and slowly sipping a cup of coffee before starting in on his day. It was the only time that he ever allowed himself to think about his past life, to think wistfully back on what had been and what could have been. What should have been.

He was just about to go outside when he heard a knock at the front door. He stilled, wondering who it could be. It wasn’t often that anyone came by during the day, but sometimes the occasional salesman did show up looking to speak to the lady of the house. Gerard set his cup down and wandered over to the door. He’d get rid of whoever it was soon enough.

Without bothering with the peephole, he opened the door and found himself face to face with Jack Sheridan.

“Hello, Gerard.”

“Sir?” He could think of only one reason why the mayor would be here. “Is something wrong with Frank?”

Sheridan shook his head, a bemused smile on his face. “No, nothing like that. Frank’s fine.”

“Oh. Oh, thank God.”

“Can I come in?”

Gerard felt himself blushing as he stepped away from the door. “Oh, of course. I’m sorry, sir.” He watched as Sheridan sauntered inside, stopping in the middle of the living room to look around. “Um . . . master’s not here right now,” he said, closing the door.

Sheridan turned. “I know. I’m not here to see him. I’m here to see you.”

“Me?”

“Can we sit down?”

Gerard nodded jerkily before indicating the sofa. Sheridan sat down on one end while Gerard shrugged off his jacket and sat down on the one opposite. He began immediately to tug at his hair, his nervous habit of choice. He couldn’t imagine what Sheridan could have to talk to him about, especially if what he had said about Frank was true, but he didn’t think it could be good.

“That’s quite a bruise you have there, Gerard.”

Gerard’s fingers briefly skirted the edge of his split lip. He’d almost forgotten it was there. “Oh, yeah.”

“How did it happen?”

A residual spark of shame almost caused him to say that he slipped and fell, the words right on the tip of his tongue when he managed to bite them back. What did it matter if this man knew what Beecher had done? As a fellow freeman, he’d probably endorse it. “My master wasn’t very happy the other night, sir.”

“The night that Frank insulted him?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And why did he hit you?”

Gerard didn’t quite understand the question. Beecher was upset so Beecher hit him. There wasn’t any more to it than that. “I . . . he was angry,” he repeated.

“But did you do anything to make him angry?”

“No, sir.”

“Frank tells me that sort of thing happens quite often.”

He bristled a little at that, but managed to keep his voice even. “Did he?”

“He did.” Sheridan paused, then scooted in just a little bit closer. “I want you to do something for me, Gerard. I want you to take off your shirt.”

The words blind-sided him, jarring him just as badly as if Sheridan had simply reached over and struck him. Even as his stomach lurched, the first tendrils of uneasy fear growing and twisting inside of him, he berated himself for not seeing it sooner. He took a deep breath and forced himself not to edge away, forced himself to remain calm so he could think.

He knew that no one could touch another man’s slave without permission, but he also knew that a dark-hair should never refuse a freeman anything. And this particular freeman just happened to be the most powerful man in the city. It was a catch-22 with absolutely no way to win.

His shoulders slumped as he realized that the only thing he could do was to do nothing.

“I’m not going to hurt you. I just need to see,” Sheridan said.

Gerard didn’t even bother acknowledging what he knew to be a lie and slipped off his shirt to clutch it in his hands. He bowed his head, shielding his eyes from Sheridan’s approach and prepared himself for the first touch.

When no touch was forthcoming, he lifted his head warily. Sheridan was closer now, but his hands were down by his side and he was staring at his back and chest intently.

“What did you do? To deserve all this? What did you do?”

Gerard was steadily growing more and more confused. He was sitting here shirtless, yet there was absolutely no lust in Sheridan’s eyes. And he couldn’t fathom why the man kept asking him about Beecher and the way he was being treated.

“Gerard?” Sheridan prompted.

“Well,” he said, deciding to answer the question honestly. “One time I dropped some milk on the table. And another time dinner was late. And a few weeks ago, he wasn’t happy with the way I did the laundry. Oh, and one time he came home drunk and angry about his job and just . . . took it out on me.” Gerard took a moment to catch his breath. “The list goes on and on like that. Sir.”

“I see, “Sheridan said before bridging the distance between them in one quick move, his fingers brushing against a knot of scar tissue on Gerard’s shoulder blade. “Or at least I think I do.”

Even now, Gerard could still recall the feel of the knife carving into his skin. He shivered and pulled away despite his best intentions to just let it happen. “Please,” he murmured.

“Gerard?”

Realizing what he had just done, Gerard leaned back in toward Sheridan. “I’m sorry, sir. I won’t do that again, I promise.”

“Do you really think I’m here for that?”

“Well, aren’t you?” he asked, honestly confused.

“Gerard . . . ” Sheridan shook his head and sighed. “Put your shirt back on. And grab your things.”

Gerard’s heart sank as he realized that he had failed. That this had all been some sort of test and he had failed.

“Wait, give me another chance, please sir. I’ll do it right this time. I swear,” he begged, clutching at the hem of Sheridan’s jacket.

“Gerard . . . no, you’re not in trouble. I just need you to get your shirt back on and get your things. We’re leaving. I’m taking you with me.”

“But . . . are we coming back before master does? He’ll be so mad if he comes home and I’m not here.”

The look on Sheridan’s face said that he believed he was talking to either an idiot or a small child, incapable of understanding. It was just as well, because right now Gerard felt like a little bit of both. “You don’t understand. You’re never coming back here.”

“You mean you’ll be . . . ?”

Sheridan stood. “I’m taking you into my household. We’ll find a place for you somehow.”

“But . . . ”

“Gerard. Now.”

Gerard practically jumped off the sofa, tugging his shirt on before all but running into his bedroom. He would not allow himself to get excited as he grabbed his few belongings and stacked them one on top of the other. There wasn’t much - some underwear, a couple of pairs of pants and some shirts now made up most of Gerard’s earthly possessions. He quickly dropped to his hands and knees and pulled out a battered sketchbook from underneath the bed. He had made it himself with some spare paper and twine. It was the most precious thing he owned and there was no way in hell he was going to leave it here. He had a feeling that he’d be back before too long and he didn’t want to leave it so Beecher could find it.

He grabbed everything, balancing it in his arms, and walked back out to the living room.

Sheridan, who was waiting by the front door, eyed his bundle curiously.

Gerard shrugged, feeling self-conscious. “I don’t have a suitcase.”

Laughing, Sheridan said, “Well, come on then. My car’s outside.”

“Sir? Can I ask - why are you doing this?”

“Honestly? Because knowing you’re being hurt is hurting Frankie. And if Silas keeps this up, I think he might kill you. And that will kill Frankie. And I don’t want that. For either of you.”

Gerard stood very still, attempting to take it all in. Only a few minutes ago, he’d been preparing for the start of an ordinary day and now here he was, getting ready to leave this place behind, supposedly for good. It was too much, too quickly, and he felt as if he were spinning out of control, unable to find purchase, terrified by the enormity of the change taking place before him.

It took him several seconds before he could force his mouth to move and even then all he could manage was one dazed syllable. “Oh.”

“Right,” Sheridan said. “So, now can we get in the car?”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Frank had just started on the dirty dishes from lunch when Joseph walked over to him and placed a hand on his shoulder. “Master wants to see you in his study, Frank.”

He stilled, his hands elbow-deep in soapy water. “Why?”

Joseph shrugged. “I have no idea. I was just told to tell you.”

“He wants me now?”

“Now.”

Frank dried his arms on a towel and stepped out of the kitchen, heading to where he knew the study to be. As usual, his thoughts turned to Gerard. He knew now that he should have fought harder for him and that he should have stopped what was happening, even if it meant strangling Beecher to death with his bare hands. Instead he’d chosen to stand idly by and watch as Gerard was dragged away like some recalcitrant child.

He knew that he had to find a way to get Gerard away from Beecher. Late at night, when sleep wouldn’t come, he’d started plotting, thinking of how to achieve his goal. He figured that the best way to do so was by asking Sheridan to take Gerard in. The man ran this town, surely there was a way he could get it done. And if that didn’t do it, Frank was prepared to take things to the next level. He knew that Sheridan had a soft spot for him - it was about time he started exploiting it.

He reached Sheridan’s study and rapped on the door, waiting until he heard a voice granting permission to enter before letting himself in.

“You wanted to see me, sir?”

Sheridan was sitting behind a massive cherry wood desk, a serene smile on his face. “Yes, Frank. I wanted to introduce you to the newest member of our household. I’d like you to take him under your wing and show him how things work around here.”

Inwardly, Frank groaned. This was the last thing he needed right now. Outwardly, he nodded and said, “Of course, sir.”

“Good. He’s here now, so you can get started right away.”

“Oh,” Frank said, feeling awkward. He hadn’t even been aware there was someone else in the room. Turning his head, he looked around, mildly curious to see who his charge was.

He found him sitting against the wall, a hunched figure in dark clothing, seemingly hiding where the shadows of the room converged.

“Hi,” Frank called out.

And then the figure stood, stepping into the light and Frank saw that it was Gerard.

Closing his eyes, he pinched the bridge of his nose and wondered if he was finally cracking and becoming delusional. When he opened his eyes, he was dismayed to see that illusionary Gerard was still there, looking at him with eyes wide with concern. “I’m losing it . . . ”

And then the beautiful illusion took a step forward and spoke his name, turning it into a plea.

All thought was obliterated at hearing that soft, hesitant voice. Frank went to him, slipping his arms around him and crushing their bodies together.

“Is this real?” he asked, desperate to know. “Tell me this is real.”

He could feel Gerard’s fingers digging into his back, so hard that he knew they would leave bruises.

He had never felt a sweeter pain in his life.

“I don’t know. I think it is.”

“But why? How?”

“Master Sheridan brought me here.”

Frank pulled away. “Master?” At Gerard’s quick nod, he turned to the other man in the room.

Loathe to let go, but knowing it was necessary, he whispered, “Wait here,” before walking over to the huge desk, navigating around it until he stood in front of Sheridan. And then, because it felt right, he dropped to his knees. “Sir? Is this for real? Does he get to stay?”

“Yes, it’s for real. Yes, he gets to stay.”

“Why?”

“I think you know why.”

Frank’s words caught in his throat so that his voice sounded foreign even to him. “Because of me? You did this for me?”

“Of course I did.”

“But Beecher–”

“Is my concern,” Sheridan interrupted. “You don’t have to worry about him.”

Frank shook his head. “How do I thank you for this? How do I even begin to thank you?”

Sheridan’s hand snaked behind Frank, cradling the back of his head and bringing him closer. A kiss followed; hard and fast, almost violent, as if it were Sheridan’s intention to hurt.

“We’ll figure out a way,” Sheridan said, letting him go.

Frank licked his lips, feeling them swollen, and blushed hotly, knowing that Gerard had been watching.

Sheridan sat back, folding his hands across his lap, the perfect gentleman once more. “But not today. Today, you can spend the day together. Enjoy it. Tomorrow, Gerard will be starting with the ground staff. I think it will be good for him to get some sun and some fresh air. Right, Gerard?”

“Yes, sir. I mean . . . master.”

“Just sir. I’m not particularly fond of being called master. But Frankie will fill you in on those kinds of things.” He turned to look back down at Frank. “Go,” he said softly.

Frank rose on legs that were surprisingly unsteady and walked over to Gerard, clasping their hands together. Gerard looked a lot like he felt, like a man who thought that his world was nothing more than a fragile dream. Like a man who was afraid that he would soon wake up and it would all end.

Yet, dream or not, it didn’t matter, he was never letting go of Gerard again.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Silas Beecher was speeding. Not enough to be dangerous, but enough so that every driver that he passed understood that he was in a hurry. He appeared attentive enough, with his hands gripping the steering wheel tight and his eyes glued to the road, but in reality, only a portion of his mind was on what he was doing. Mostly, he was thinking about what was waiting for him at home, the reason he was speeding in the first place.

Growing up with a father who drank away most of his paycheck, he’d always envied those with enough money to own slaves. He used to fantasize about it, what it must feel like to hold that amount of power over another person.

Even when he grew up and started falling into his father’s old habits, pissing away his paycheck before he could save anything up, he never stopped wondering what it would be like to own someone.

He had never expected the fantasy to become reality. And he had certainly never expected Gerard. So damn pretty, especially now that his hair was finally growing out. Pretty, like a girl, but most definitely not a girl. There was muscle underneath that satin skin, strength lying dormant. It was the ultimate turn-on to know that he, and he alone, controlled that strength.

He squirmed a little in his seat, already excited as he thought about what he would do to Gerard once he got home. Maybe a quick fuck against the wall, then something a little more intense after dinner. He could see himself taking a beer bottle to bed, pouring the liquid on Gerard’s fine skin before licking it off. He could imagine himself sliding that beer bottle inside of that unwilling body, slow and easy . . .

He groaned and arched his hips off the seat, adjusting himself. He had to be careful, if he kept this up he’d come before he even got in the house.

He pulled into the driveway only a few minutes later, hard as a rock and itching to get inside.

As soon as he walked in the door, however, he knew something was wrong.

“Gerard,” he called out.

The name rang out against the stillness of the house, yet he received no answer.

Silas frowned as he walked through the house, calling his slave’s name every so often. The place wasn’t very large and it didn’t take long for him to realize that Gerard was gone. The fact that Gerard’s clothes were gone as well did not go unnoticed. He dropped to his knees beside Gerard’s bed and saw that his sketchbook was missing as well, the one that Gerard didn’t think he knew about.

He couldn’t believe that Gerard had run away. He would have sworn to the highest jury that he had beaten any kind of resistance from him.

But the evidence couldn’t be denied. He wasn’t here, and there wasn’t a question in Silas’ mind as to where he would try to go.

The fury ran through his body, dripping from his every pore as he stalked over to the phone. He would call the police’s Retrieval Center and they’d have him back within the hour. It would mean city-mandated disciplinary action for Gerard, probably a combination of the shock chair and an old-fashioned whipping, but he’d be brought back home soon enough and then Silas would make sure that he never ran away again.

He placed his hand on the phone, but before he could pick it up, it gave a shrill ring.

He answered it.

“Mr. Beecher?”

The voice on the other end of the line was familiar, but Silas couldn’t quite place it.

“Yes?”

“This is the mayor. I think we need to talk.”


	13. Chapter 13

There was no empty room in the slaves’ quarters for Gerard, so Sheridan had a bed delivered to the mansion and placed in Frank’s room. It made the already small room feel even more cramped, but neither Frank nor Gerard much cared.

They spent the better part of their first day together ensconced in that room, venturing out only for quick meals. Otherwise, they closed the door and locked away the world as Gerard drifted in and out of uneasy sleep.

Frank, for his part, sat perched on the edge of the bed like a sentinel, watching over his friend with a dedicated intensity. At times he would stroke Gerard’s hair, or hold his hand, or brush his knuckles soft across his cheek.

More than once, Gerard pulled away from him, apology and fear in his eyes, as if Frank’s touch were a harmful thing. It hurt, but Frank understood. Or he thought he did. It didn’t take a psychiatrist to know that Gerard was damaged and that the physical injuries were the least of that damage.

Frank knew that things had changed, that Gerard had changed. But he had changed as well. He certainly wasn’t the same person that had stepped into this world a few months ago. It was just a matter of figuring out how he and Gerard fit together now.

Night came eventually, and with it, the first smattering of butterflies in Frank’s stomach. He thought that Sheridan would give them at least this one night to themselves, but he couldn’t be sure. It was that uncertainty that fueled his unease.

“What’s wrong, Frank?” Gerard asked. His voice was raspy, sounding worn and tired despite the amount of sleep he’d gotten.

Frank tore his gaze away from the door, surprised that Gerard had picked up on his nervousness. “Nothing,” he said.

“Then why do you keep staring at the door?”

Frank tried on a smile, hoping to appear innocent. He wasn’t up to explaining the complexities of his relationship with Sheridan. At least not tonight. Maybe not ever. “Was I?”

Gerard looked at him suspiciously, then shrugged, sighing. “I don’t know. Maybe not.”

“Look, it’s almost bedtime,” Frank said, glancing at the clock. “Let’s just crash now. We’re both going to have a long day tomorrow.”

Gerard was sitting up in his bed, back against the headboard, his fingers drawing invisible circles against the sheets. “I feel like I’ve slept all day.”

“Yeah, but it wasn’t good sleep,” he said. And then, forcing a confidence into his voice that he didn’t really feel, he added, “Tonight will be good sleep.”

“I shouldn’t be so tired,” Gerard mumbled as he slumped down, his body sliding under the sheets.

Frank risked another glance at the door before getting under his own covers. “Your body needs to recharge. That’s not a bad thing.”

“Maybe. Hey, Frank?”

“Yeah.”

“Thank you. For babysitting me all day.”

The urge to throw himself at Gerard and just squeeze him almost overwhelmed him. He literally had to lock his limbs in place to stop it, remembering all too well what had happened the last time he’d given in to his impulses; remembering that there were new borders, new rules to his relationship with Gerard and that he still had no idea what they were.

“I wouldn’t exactly call that babysitting, man.”

“Well, thank you anyway. I mean, you probably had better stuff to do . . . ”

“Better than hanging with you? I don’t think so.”

A small smile tugged at the corners of Gerard’s mouth as his eyes fluttered closed. “You always were a shitty liar.”

“And then he insults me.”

“Goodnight, Frank.”

“Goodnight, Gerard.”

And with that, Frank turned off the lights and snuggled deep under the covers, pleased at the sense of absolute peace he felt now that Gerard was with him.

He was nearly asleep when he heard his name being spoken in the barest of whispers.

He blinked his eyes open, wondering if he’d already been dreaming when he heard it again; no louder, yet more insistent.

He turned his head, seeking the source. “Gee? What’s wrong?”

Silence greeted his question. He was about to repeat it when he heard Gerard’s voice, soft and hesitant. “I’m . . . I’m scared.”

Frank sat up, eyes narrowed against the inky blackness of the room. “Of what?”

Again, there was silence.

“Gerard?” he pressed.

“Of Beecher.”

“Beecher can’t hurt you anymore.”

“You don’t know that. What if he takes me back, Frank?”

“That’s not going to happen. Master won’t let it happen.”

“He’s going to come for me,” Gerard said, and his voice was no longer hesitant or soft. It was rising higher, the words coming faster and faster. “He is. And I don’t want to go back, Frank. I’m so scared. I don’t want to go back.”

Frank threw the covers off of his body and, arms held before him like a blind man, made his way over to the other bed. His knee found it first and he stumbled and almost fell, catching himself on the mattress just in time. He crawled onto it, finding Gerard in the darkness and bringing him close.

“It’s ok. I’m here.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No . . . hey . . . it’s ok. Gerard, listen. Listen to me, ok? Beecher can’t hurt you here. You’re safe here, all right? I mean, There’s gates and alarms and security. Even if he were crazy enough to try it, he’d never get anywhere near you. Besides,” he said, his voice a little softer, gentler. “I’m not letting you go again. I am never letting you go again.”

“I know. In my head I know that. But . . . ”

“But what?”

“But it doesn’t help. Knowing those things doesn’t help. I’m so scared I feel like I can’t breathe, Frank.”

It hurt to hear those words, hurt to know that Gerard felt that way, and hurt to know that he couldn’t take that fear away. He opened his mouth to respond, the words ‘Oh, baby,’ already forming as a sigh on his lips when he swallowed them back just in time.

Men didn’t call other men baby. They just didn’t.

Instead he said, “It’s ok. It’s ok to feel scared. But I’m going to show you that you don’t have to be. I promise.”

Gerard didn’t respond, at least not verbally, but he nodded and edged a little closer to Frank, bringing his forehead to rest against Frank’s chest.

And Frank sighed and rocked Gerard gently and murmured promise after promise that he would keep him safe and that no one would ever touch him again. He did this until he felt Gerard relax against him and heard his faint snores. And only then did he allow himself to finally fall asleep.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Gerard’s first full day in Sheridan’s household was uneventful, which is exactly what both Frank and Gerard had been hoping for.

They showered, dressed, then ate breakfast together before splitting up to go to their separate duties.

They found each other again at lunch and then at dinner, staying with the rest of the staff in the common room after they’d eaten.

Frank was pleased to see everyone welcoming Gerard with open arms, not that he’d really expected anything different. He knew that he worked and lived with really good people. Rebecca had been especially kind, treating Gerard like a long-lost brother rather than someone she’d only known for two days. She was the only one Frank had confided in, the only who had any inkling about Gerard’s situation. At first, Frank had been afraid that her knowledge would cause her to treat Gerard differently, but that couldn’t have been farther from reality.

Gerard seemed comfortable with her as well, much more comfortable than he seemed around any of the men, a fact that didn’t go unnoticed by Frank.

Afterward, when the clock signaled an end to the day, they bade everyone goodnight and made their way to their room where Gerard quickly shrugged into his pajamas, then flopped onto the bed. He sat, legs crossed Indian style, flexing and unflexing hands that were sore from the day’s manual labor.

Meanwhile, Frank had slipped into his own pajamas and was hovering at a point midway between the two beds, finally taking a hesitant step toward Gerard’s. The memory of last night was still bright in his mind, the way Gerard had so desperately admitted to his fear, the way he had clung to him as if he were a human life preserver.

But now, Gerard only looked up him and smiled mildly. “You can sleep in your own bed, Frank. I’m ok.”

“You sure? Cause I don’t mind.”

“I’m sure. I’m fine. Besides, we barely fit. And you snore in my ear.”

“You’re full of shit.”

Gerard chuckled and Frank felt an electric pulse rising through his body. Hearing Gerard laugh again, seeing the crinkles at the corners of his eyes appear, was like a rare form of magic.

“So, how did you like your first full day?” Frank asked after settling into his own bed.

“It wasn’t bad,” Gerard said, his smile melting away as he grew serious. “I didn’t think I’d like working outdoors, but I did.”

“Good.”

“And everyone’s really nice here. Becca, Jason, Anthony . . . everyone’s so nice.” He slipped under the covers, bringing them up to his chin. “You’ve been really lucky to have them.”

“Yeah. I just wish that you’d–”

Gerard waved his hand, cutting him off. “Don’t. Please,” he said as a pained look marred his features. “I can’t . . . ”

“I’m sorry,” Frank said quickly, mentally berating himself for saying the wrong thing. Only two days in and he was already messing up.

“No, it’s ok. I think I’m just overtired or something.”

“Ok, well . . . maybe we should just go to bed?”

“Yeah, maybe.”

Frank wanted to say something more, but could think of nothing that sounded right. Admitting defeat, he sighed. “All right. Well, goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Frankie.”

Frank clicked off the light, sparing a quick glance at the door and sending out a prayer that Sheridan would stay away this night as well.

He knew it was only a matter of time before he came to pay him a visit. Sheridan had done him an incredible kindness and he would expect to be repaid. Not that Frank had any problem doing so - that part didn’t bother him in the slightest. What did bother him was that Gerard would have to know; that eventually Gerard would have to see the whore he’d become.

With that final, disquieting thought in mind, he closed his eyes and eventually drifted off to sleep.

The first scream pierced the dark like a knife, slicing into Frank’s consciousness and bringing him to sharp awareness.

The scream came again, long and loud and full of pain beyond comprehension. For a terrible moment, Frank was afraid that Beecher had somehow managed to break inside the house and had gotten to Gerard after all.

He sat up, his heart thudding in his chest, his fingers trembling as he reached to turn on the bedside light, ready to face any attacker. When the light blazed on, Frank was treated to the sight of Gerard’s body thrashing and bucking, his arms flailing wildly against an assailant that did not exist.

Frank raced over to him and placed his hands on his shoulders, shaking him as hard as he dared. “Gerard, wake up.”

Gerard continued to struggle, one of his open hands catching Frank hard against the face. He ignored the sting and tightened his grip. “Gerard, it’s ok. Wake up now. It’s ok.”

Gerard gave a final cry, screaming out the word, “no” before his body stiffened and his eyes shot open. Moments later, he was pulling away, his body arching backward so that Frank had no choice but to let go. He released Gerard and watched as he scrambled away to the farthest edge of the bed, looking both terrified and disoriented.

“What?” Gerard asked.

Trying to sound as soothing and calm as possible, Frank said, “You had a nightmare.”

Gerard brought a hand to his mouth and nodded his understanding, his body relaxing by degrees. “I thought . . . it seemed so real.”

“Was it Beecher?”

“Yeah.” Gerard’s hand traveled down to his chest, his fingers spreading wide as if to prove to himself that he existed.

Frank reached out a hand to him, wanting to comfort with touch. He pulled it back before it could make contact, unsure if the gesture would be welcome. “Do you need anything? Some water?”

“No. Tired,” Gerard said, already slumping back down, yawning as if to make his point.

“Ok . . . well,” Frank said hesitantly, confused at the turn of events. Only moments ago Gerard had been screaming like the damned and now he could barely keep his eyes open. “I’d . . . I’d better let you get back to sleep, then. If you’re sure you’re ok.”

“I am, but . . . Frank?”

“Yeah?”

“You don’t have to go. I mean, it’s ok if you want to. Or if you want to stay . . . ”

“Do you want me to sleep here?”

Gerard broke into a self-conscious smile. “Yeah.”

“Done. Let me go turn the light off.”

He did, and managed to scramble back to Gerard’s bed in the dark without hurting himself.

Facing Gerard, he positioning himself so that Gerard’s head was tucked against his chest.

“Is this ok?”

“Yes,” Gerard murmured, more asleep than awake.

Cupping Gerard’s face with one hand, he leaned down and kissed his forehead.

It was only later, when Gerard was snoring softly next to him, and he was striving to get back to sleep himself that it occurred to him that he’d kissed his friend as tenderly as he’d ever kissed any lover.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

After the fourth consecutive night of nightmares, Frank had what he considered to be a brilliant idea.

As Gerard watched from the corner, he pushed their two beds together, making them into one.

“Frank, I don’t think this is necessary.”

“Are you kidding?” Frank said as he stood back and admired the result. “This is perfect. This way I’m right here for you if you have any more bad dreams.” He paused, considering. “Unless you really don’t want me this close.”

“No, it’s not that. It’s . . . ” Gerard shook his head. “No, you’re right. It’s a good idea.”

The truth was, he wanted Frank next to him at night. He wanted Frank next to him always. He felt safest when the other man was around, yet at the same time he hated himself for needing Frank so badly. He’d only been away from Beecher for a few days and he was already tired of feeling like a scared little boy all the time.

Frank jumped on the bed, patting the side that belonged to Gerard. “Come on. Try it.”

Gerard shrugged and started to move forward when he heard a knock at the door. Both he and Frank froze, their gazes turning toward the door. As they watched, it opened, revealing Jack Sheridan.

Frank had warned him only yesterday that this would happen. He’d known it was only a matter of time. But still, knowing that Sheridan was sleeping with Frank and actually having it happen were two different things.

“Well,” Sheridan said, looking at the two beds together. “This is interesting.”

“Is it ok, sir? We didn’t think anyone would mind,” Frank asked.

“No, it’s fine,” he said, but the way he looked at the beds and at Frank made Gerard wonder.

“Gerard,” Sheridan said, turning his attention toward him. “Why don’t you step outside for a few minutes? Frank and I need to talk.”

Gerard looked over at Frank, unsure. Despite the fact that it was disguised as a suggestion, his new master had given him an order and he knew better than to ever disobey an order. At the same time, he didn’t want to leave Frank alone with Sheridan. He recognized the look in Sheridan’s eyes well enough, he knew there would be precious little talking done once the door was shut behind him.

Frank walked over to him and placed a hand on his shoulder. As if capable of reading his mind, Frank whispered, “It’s ok. He doesn’t hurt me, remember?”

“You’re sure?” he said, stealing a glance at the man that had pulled him from hell. The same man who would soon be holding Frank in his arms, kissing him, touching him . . . He closed his eyes against the unbidden image, only opening them again when he felt Frank’s hand tighten on his shoulder.

“Gee, I’ll be fine. I promise. Go outside.”

Gerard turned and walked out the door, closing it behind him before he could even consider doing anything but what he’d been told to do.

He slumped against the corridor’s wall, letting his body slide down until he was sitting on the floor.

Then he began to wait.

And as he sat there, seconds ticking by endlessly, his heart began to pound harsh and loud against his chest as he began to imagine what was happening behind that door. He tempered that by telling himself that Frank would not lie to him. Frank said that Sheridan had never hurt him, would not hurt him. And Gerard knew that Sheridan was not Beecher. He did.

He let the back of his head hit the wall, his fingers dragging through and catching in his hair.

Sheridan was not Beecher.

Frank was safe.

He was safe.

He repeated these things, over and over, getting lost in the words, until the passage of time became meaningless.

It was only when he saw Sheridan standing above him, smoothing down his shirt, that he realized just how much time must have passed.

“Gerard,” Sheridan said, voice sounding very kind and patient. “You can go back in.”

Gerard nodded, too numb to do much of anything else. He stood up and looked at the man, unsure of what he should be feeling. Hatred? Disgust, maybe? Anger? He wasn’t sure, what he knew was that there was precious little there, save for the need to be with Frank.

He watched Sheridan head down the hallway before he turned and hurried into his and Frank’s room.

He found Frank sitting on the bed, looking a little disheveled, but none the worse for wear.

Gingerly, he sat down next to him, his eyes scanning Frank’s body for any damage. “Are you ok?” he asked.

Frank’s eyes avoided his own, his cheeks turning deep scarlet. And yet somehow he managed to conjure up a small, reassuring smile. “I’m fine. Please don’t worry.”

“I feel like I should have stopped him.”

“There’s nothing you could have done. Besides, I don’t want you to feel you have to protect me. Not when there’s nothing to protect me from.”

“Even if he doesn’t hurt you, he’s still touching you. That’s not right. Don’t tell me you don’t care.”

“This is my life, Gerard. I’ve made peace with it. Besides, it’s not so bad.”

Gerard opened his mouth to respond, then closed it again when he realized there was nothing to say. He understood better than anybody the choices one had to make to survive in this world - the compromises, the sacrifices. And yet, somehow Frank was still Frank - he had managed to retain that sense of self, whereas he . . . he had lost himself almost completely.

Giving in to impulse, he traced one of Frank’s perfectly arched eyebrows with his fingertips, pleased when Frank’s eyes widened and finally settled on his own.

A second later he found himself in Frank’s arms, pulled into a too-tight embrace. Gerard could feel the sweat cooling on Frank’s body as the unmistakable smell of sex assaulted his nostrils. For a moment, the constraining hold was simply too much, too reminiscent of Beecher, and he was tempted to pull away. But there was desperation in the way that Frank was clinging to him, and he realized that Frank needed this.

“As long as you’re ok, Frankie,” he said. “That’s all that matters. As long as you’re ok.”

Frank pulled away, breaking the connection. “I am. But, I need you to do me a favor.”

“Yeah, anything. What is it?”

“Don’t call me Frankie anymore. That’s what he calls me and it’s . . . I don’t know . . . tainted.” Frank bowed his head, peering up at him through a curtain of bangs. “Does that sound stupid?”

Gerard brushed that curtain of hair to the side. “No, it doesn’t Frank. Not at all.”

Frank nodded quickly then looked away. It was so easy to read his embarrassment. Gerard was about to tell him that there was nothing to be ashamed of when Frank reached out and turned off the light, pitching them into darkness. “No bad dreams tonight. I can feel it,” he said.

“No bad dreams,” Gerard echoed, although he didn’t believe it for one moment.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The whimpers coming from Gerard’s side of the bed alerted Frank to the start of another nightmare.

He came awake like a soldier on the battlefield, ever ready, ever prepared.

With a firm tenderness, he wrapped his arms around Gerard’s body. Even in the dark he knew the moment that Gerard crossed from nightmare to waking. He tightened his hold when Gerard struggled against him, then relaxed it when Gerard went pliant.

“Oh, God . . . ” Gerard cried, voice breaking over the two syllables.

“Sh . . . it’s ok. It’s over now. Sh . . . ” Frank soothed, speaking the words over and over again, taking care that they not become meaningless. He stroked Gerard’s hair and rubbed his back, pleased when the other man didn’t pull away from him.

It felt strangely right to hold Gerard like this - the way their bodies fit against each other - like the last two pieces of a puzzle coming together. Still speaking softly, hands busy petting Gerard’s slightly damp hair, he leaned in until his lips touched Gerard’s forehead. The skin there was warm and slightly sweaty, a testament to the horror the dream had held.

A moment later he placed a quick kiss against Gerard’s open mouth. There was no heat behind it, no passion. It was nothing more than the kiss to his forehead had been, a simple physical show of his love for his friend.

Before he could over think it, he leaned back in, pressing his lips down a little harder, feeling the softness of Gerard’s mouth against his own.

He was about to pull away, suddenly aware of what he was doing and how Gerard might misconstrue it, when he felt Gerard press back. For an infinitesimal second, Gerard actually pressed back.

And then that second passed into another and the moment ended, both of them breaking away from the other at the same time. Frank half-expected Gerard to push him away, but if anything he snuggled even closer, breathing out his name so softly that Frank’s ears barely caught it, already nearly asleep.

Frank had a feeling he would wonder about the kiss in the morning. He would probably worry about it, might even obsess over it and its meaning.

But not tonight.

Tonight he was tired and worried about Gerard and one simple kiss held absolutely no mystery.


	14. Chapter 14

“Are you happy?”

The question came unexpectedly, after a round of sex so vigorous it skirted the edge of violent. Frank was sure that he was going to have some bruises come morning. He was already dreading having to explain them to Gerard.

Blinking, still trying to catch his breath, Frank gave the first answer that sprang to his mind, the one he thought was expected. “Of course, sir.”

“No. Don’t lie to me,” Sheridan said as he sat up, he too breathing heavily. “You’ve seemed so troubled lately.”

Frank sat up as well, suddenly itching for a cigarette. It had been months and he still craved them. He chewed on his thumbnail instead, trying to sort out the truth in his head. Not an easy task considering he didn’t even know what the truth was. “I don’t know. I’m not unhappy, though.”

“Is it Gerard?”

Frank shrugged, mumbling against his hand. “I don’t know.”

“The truth, Frank. Talk to me.”

There it was again, the tone that brooked no arguments, the one that made even the mildest statement into an order. Frank twisted his body toward Sheridan to better comply. “It’s just that . . . he’s so broken. I want to fix him, I want to help him, but I don’t know how. I never know if I’m doing the right thing or saying the right thing.”

“I see.”

“But I’m not unhappy,” he added quickly. “And I’m sorry if I’ve seemed ungrateful.”

“No, you haven’t, Frankie. Not at all.”

“Good. Because having him here means the world to me, sir. You have to know that.”

“I do.” Sheridan smiled and ran his fingers through Frank’s sweat-soaked hair. “I do know that.”

Frank relaxed against the touch, enjoying the shivers it sent up his spine despite himself.

“Do you love him?”

“What?” he asked, pulling away slightly.

“I asked you if you love him.”

“Well, of course I do. I mean, we’ve been friends for so long.”

“Not like that. I know you love him as a friend. I want to know if you love him as a man.”

Frank found it ironic that Sheridan had asked the question that he himself had been struggling to find the answer to. Ever since he and Gerard had shared that first intimate kiss, his mind had been in a tailspin. He could try to come up with an answer to Sheridan’s question, but that would involve the kind of soul-searching that he wasn’t ready to engage in just yet. Besides, there was a part of him that didn’t want to share something so personal with their master, no matter how kind he seemed or how much was owed to him. He had to have something that was just his, his and Gerard’s alone. “No. I don’t,” he said, letting the lie slip easily from his lips. “He’s wonderful, but I don’t think of him that way.”

Sheridan seemed satisfied with this. He eased out of bed, dressing with quick, economic movements. “He seems to be adjusting fairly well.”

“Yeah, I guess he is,” Frank said vaguely. He was back to chewing on his nail, almost ferociously now as he tried to figure out what Sheridan was playing at. If there was one thing he had learned about the man, it was that Sheridan didn’t say or do anything without a reason.

“And he certainly is beautiful,” Sheridan added, almost as an afterthought. “I hadn’t noticed it before, but I see it now.”

Frank agreed of course, but he was not about to say it aloud, not with Sheridan’s motives for the conversation a mystery.

“Well, I’d better let him come back in here. He gets so worried about you.” He gave Frank a quick peck on the lips. “Goodnight, Frankie.”

“Goodnight, sir.”

Frank watched as he left and Gerard entered, almost as if they were passing through a revolving door.

Sitting down on the edge of the bed, Gerard tentatively touched his shoulder, his face creased with concern. “Are you ok?”

“You know,” he said, his gaze fixed on the door, “I’m not really sure.”

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

On some days, Frank felt like his head would split in two from the endless thoughts that circled inside of it. Some days, he wished that it would, just so his brain could finally take a much needed break.

There was the fact that Sheridan was still coming to see him regularly, sending Gerard out into the hall every time. He could see how difficult it was for Gerard but he could also see no way of changing it. Gerard certainly couldn’t stay and there was simply no other place for him to go.

And even if a room did miraculously open up, Gerard wasn’t ready to sleep on his own. Not with the nightmares that had such a hold on him, leaving him shuddering and gasping in their wake. The only saving grace was that they didn’t happen nearly as often anymore, a fact that Frank was eternally grateful for.

And if Sheridan and Gerard’s nightmares weren’t enough, there was Gerard himself.

And the kisses.

They always happened at night and they were always brief, nearly chaste, with an innocence about them that brought to mind olden days of chivalry and courtship.

They never talked about them the next day, that silence giving them the feel of a dirty, little secret. Except that it didn’t feel dirty. When it was happening, when his hands cupped Gerard’s face and their lips pressed against each other and he tasted the other man on his tongue . . . nothing felt more pure or right.

It was all so confusing, made more so by his feelings for Jamia, feelings which became increasingly muddied and distant with each passing day.

“Becca, can I ask you something?” he asked, surprising himself. He hadn’t planned on saying anything to her, had planned on trying to figure it all out himself, but the words had rushed out of his mouth seemingly of their own accord.

She smiled and handed Frank yet another plate for him to dry. “Sure.”

It was near the end of another workday, dinner having been served and eaten. Now all that remained was the cleanup.

“A couple of weeks ago, you said something about me and Gerard. About how I loved him like you loved Christian?”

“And I said I was sorry. I was wrong.”

“Yeah, never mind that. I want you to tell me more about why you thought it.”

“Huh?”

“And if you still do.”

She gave him a look of wary skepticism. He couldn’t blame her, not after the way he’d reacted last time. “Frank, are you feeling well?”

“I’m great,” he said, waving away her concern, which he suspected was mostly sarcastic anyway. “So, back to the question . . . ”

She shrugged and bent her head to work on the next plate, but he didn’t miss the little smile that played on her lips before she answered. “Because of the way you talked about him before he arrived. It was obvious that he was very special to you. And now . . . ”

“What?” he asked, growing impatient when she didn’t immediately answer.

“Now, you sort of do this thing where you light up whenever he’s around.”

“I do?”

“Yes.” She said it as if he were an idiot for not such seeing such a perfectly obvious thing. “And the same thing goes for him.”

“Really?” he asked, dismayed when his voice sounded a little too eager. “Really?” he tried again, sounding much more suave and disinterested the second time.

“Well, maybe ‘light up’ isn’t the right term for him. He’s still too hurt by what happened. But he’s calmer when you’re around. Like with you he achieves some sense of peace.”

“But that’s just friendship,” he said, unconsciously taking the role of devil’s advocate.

“I don’t think so. Sometimes he looks at you like you’re, I don’t know, a knight in shining armor.”

Frank blushed, feeling not only pleased by what he’d heard but also foolish and uncomfortable. “No, he doesn’t. You know what? Why did I even bring this up? Just . . . never mind.” He grabbed the plate from her hand and started wiping at it with a furious intensity.

She turned toward him, placing wet, soapy hands on her hips. “Why are you so afraid of it?”

“I’m not afraid of anything.”

“You’ve loved him like a friend. What’s wrong with admitting that maybe it’s evolved into something else?”

“There’s a lot of reasons, ok?”

“Do you want to know what I think?”

“No.”

“Well, then you shouldn’t have asked,” she said. Barely pausing to take a breath, she added, “I think that you and Gerard could be really good for each other, really wonderful together, if you’d just let go of that fear and give it a chance.”

Frank sighed, his shoulders slumping with what felt like the weight of the world. “I don’t know if I can do that,” he said, his voice hushed so that Rebecca had to strain to hear. “I don’t know if I want to.”

“Well, then you need to figure it out, Frank. For your sake and his.”

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Looking back, Frank should have expected it. Everyone, eventually, wanted Gerard. There was a reason that he had been the fan favorite. He was magnetic. Even now, in his fragility, one couldn’t help but be drawn to him.

He shouldn’t have been surprised, and yet somehow he still was, when Sheridan came for him.

He’d been plucking out some random song on his guitar while Gerard sketched on his pad, the same one that he’d brought with him from Beecher’s house. Frank had asked him once if he wouldn’t prefer a new one, but Gerard wouldn’t hear of it.

It had been a comfortable moment, the kind that you recall years afterward with fondness when you were feeling nostalgic.

A comfortable, quiet moment - until Sheridan walked through the door.

Frank set the guitar aside while Gerard placed his supplies on the floor, already making to stand up.

But Sheridan waved him back down, saying, “You’ll stay.”

Frank frowned, uncomprehending. Surely, he didn’t mean for Gerard to witness this?

“Frank,” he said, turning toward him. “You can step outside.”

If he had only been prepared, if he had been expecting it, he might have handled things differently.

But he hadn’t been.

He jumped off the bed, walking over to Sheridan, spitting out words without thought. “You can’t. You can’t do that.”

Sheridan’s eyes blazed with something he hadn’t seen before, not in all the time he’d been here. He realized, when Sheridan grasped his arm and used it to yank him forward, that it was anger. “You do not tell me what I can or can’t do, Frank.”

Wrong, wrong, wrong.

The words echoed loudly in his brain as he realized what a stupid thing he had just said. “No, no, I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t mean . . . ”

“Didn’t mean what?”

“To question you. It’s just that, Gerard’s not ready for this. Please, sir.”

“Tell me, didn’t I go slowly with you? Wasn’t I gentle? Don’t I take care of you?”

“Yes, sir. But-”

“It would be no different with Gerard.”

“But Gerard’s been through so much.”

“He’s in my house now,” Sheridan stated. The air of finality in his voice signified that the discussion was over. “He belongs to me. And if I want him like this, I will have him like this.”

Despite knowing that he had lost, Frank was about to continue to protest when Gerard spoke.

“Frank. It’s ok. You can go.”

“No, Gerard, I can’t.”

“Frank, I’m not a child. You don’t have to protect me. Go.”

Despite Gerard’s assurances, Frank did not move. Instead he stood, mentally going over the situation, calculating every angle, weighing the benefits of giving in versus resisting. He was reminded, strangely enough, of a scene in the old movie, WarGames. The one where the computer goes through every scenario for thermonuclear war before deciding that the only winning move is not to play. He felt much the same way, except that in his case, not playing the game was not an option.

He looked to Gerard for the answer, his eyes pleading with him for some sort of sign as to what he should do.

“Go,” Gerard mouthed at him. Then he nodded, slow and steady. “Go.”

And finally, feeling heartsick and defeated, Frank did.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Frank stood outside the door to his and Gerard’s room, staring at it and willing it to open. Yet no matter how much effort and concentration he put into it, the door stayed stubbornly shut.

He had no idea how much time had elapsed since Sheridan had gone inside, but it felt like a lifetime, the minutes stretching out endlessly. It was only the third time that Sheridan had picked Gerard over all the others, and already Frank knew he couldn’t handle much more of this. He was nearly mad with worry for his friend. Worry, and another emotion that felt uncomfortably like jealousy. He pushed that last thought aside, frustrated that it had even entered his head. He had already decided, after his conversation with Rebecca, that he was not in love with Gerard. He had simply been confused. He and Gerard were friends, brought even closer together by the misery of this world, but that’s all they were. He had a wonderful woman waiting for him at home. He was in love with her. Not with Gerard.

He sighed and redoubled his efforts at staring at the door when it opened, causing him to stumble backward to avoid getting slammed by it.

“Sir?”

Sheridan was walking out into the hallway, running his fingers through his hair and muttering to himself. He did not look pleased.

“I don’t know, Frankie,” he said, barely slowing down. “He’s worse off than I thought. Maybe I made a mistake in bringing him here.”

Frank was about to respond, but Sheridan was already moving past him down the hall. For a moment, he was tempted to run after him and demand an explanation to his comment. Instead, he hurried back into the room to find Gerard sitting on the bed, trembling and wiping at his eyes.

“What happened? Did he hurt you?”

Gerard shook his head. “No. He was kissing me, rubbing my thigh and I freaked. I don’t know what happened.”

Sheridan’s words rang loudly in Frank’s head, repeating over and over again like a tape on a loop. He pulled away, feeling the worry turning into something hard and cold.“Jesus, Gerard. You’ve gotta find a way to pull it together for him.”

Gerard’s eyes widened with disbelief. “What?”

“You’ve gotta give him what he wants.”

“I’m trying.”

“Try harder. Shit, Gerard. I do it.”

Gerard shot off the bed. “Well, excuse me for being a little fucking traumatized from being raped and beaten on a daily basis! Not everyone’s been pampered in a fucking ivory castle for months like you have!”

Frank stood as well, clenching his fists tight against the urge to strike out at Gerard, his voice coming as a low growl. “You have no idea what it’s been like here for me. None.”

“Don’t I? You’ve got your guitar, a master who cares about you. Friends. What the hell have I had?”

“Gerard . . . ”

“And now you come in here and tell me that I need to suck it up? Tell me, Frank, what does thirty pieces of silver buy these days?”

Frank reacted without thought, reaching for Gerard with grasping hands. He brought him close, shaking his body to emphasize his words. “Listen, you stupid, stubborn idiot. Do you have any idea why you’re here? Do you? You’re here because for whatever reason, Master likes me enough that he didn’t want to see me miserable. Because that’s how I was when I found out what was happening to you. I was so far gone, I was more dead than alive. But I don’t know how far his goodwill extends. If you don’t make him happy, he could give you back. Maybe back to Beecher. Or he could put you up for sale where somebody even worse gets you. And then where would you be? I can’t lose you again, Gerard. Don’t you get it? I can’t lose you.”

“Jesus. I can’t believe this. Are you even listening to what you’re saying?”

“I’m saying that I love you and I need you.”

“Yeah? Well, you have a real fucked up way of showing it.” He twisted out of Frank’s grip and shoved at his chest, sending him staggering backward. He regained his balance just in time to see Gerard walking toward the door.

“Where are you going?”

“Away from here, away from you.”

“It’s past curfew. You can’t go out there. You’ll get in trouble.”

Gerard narrowed his eyes, shooting Frank a look of such contempt that he flinched from it. “What are they going to do to me that hasn’t been done already?”

And with that he slipped out the door, letting it click shut behind him.

Frank stared at the door, debating whether or not to go after him. But he was angry too, although he couldn’t say exactly why, and that anger kept him where he was.

“Fuck!” Frank shouted, turning away. He pounded his fist into the wall, pleased at the sharp sting produced when the skin on his knuckles split. “Fuck!”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

The library was tucked away in the east wing of the house, a large and inviting room decorated in warm tones and filled with overstuffed armchairs and a sofa, the kind that tempt people to sit down in them to see how far they’ll sink.

It was also filled, unsurprisingly, with hundreds of books. Most of the titles were unfamiliar to Frank, barometers of the new, hostile world in which he found himself. He knew, from speaking with Becca, that all books that were written by dark haired people had been systemically destroyed in the purge. This knowledge brought with it an irrevocable sadness; a deep, terrible mourning for treasures lost.

Randomly, he picked up one of the books, opened it to its first page and began skimming it with interest.

“Frankie.”

The voice, booming so loudly against the silence of the room, startled him and he whipped his head around, snapping the book shut in the process. It was only Sheridan of course, arriving to the meeting that Frank had asked for.

He was about to replace the book, when Sheridan asked, “What do you have there?”

“Oh, nothing. I was just looking through it, sir.”

“Looking through it?”

“Well, reading it. The first couple of paragraphs while I was waiting. Is that all right?”

“Reading?” Sheridan asked as he drew closer. “Dark-haired’s don’t read, Frankie.”

Feeling affronted, though not surprised, Frank had to repress the urge to sound smug when he answered. “I can read, sir. Gerard and I both can.”

“Really?” Sheridan plucked the book from out of Frank’s hands and placed it back on the shelf. A moment later, he pulled down another book, opening it to a random page, and handed it to Frank. “Read it.”

Frank took the book and did as he was told, starting at the top of the page and not stopping until Sheridan indicated that it was enough. It was a medical textbook and dry as hell, but it didn’t matter. He was reading again. He closed the book and handed it back to Sheridan, feeling more confident than he had in days.

“Extraordinary,” Sheridan whispered.

“In my world, everyone can read. Even people with dark hair.” It was an exaggeration of course, but Sheridan didn’t need to know that.

“Amazing.” Sheridan slid the book back in its place. “You know, at times you really do have me convinced that you don’t belong here.” Then, growing solemn, he leaned forward and cupped Frank’s cheek with the palm of his hand.

“Regardless of how you learned it, I don’t want you showing that ability to anyone else, understand? It could be very dangerous for you if you do.”

“I understand. I won’t.”

“Good,” Sheridan said, dropping his hand and taking a step back. “But you didn’t ask to see me to discuss books, hm?”

“No, sir.”

Sheridan indicated the sofa with a nod. They both moved toward it and sat down.

“So what was so important that you needed to see me right away?”

And here it was - the moment of truth. Frank tried to latch onto some of the confidence he had felt only scant moments ago, but it was gone, replaced by the nervousness which had haunted him all morning; ever since he’d come up with this idea.

“I have a proposition for you, sir.”

“Oh? And what would that be?”

Frank took a deep breath, trying to steel himself. “I will give myself to you, fully and completely, in exchange for you leaving Gerard alone.”

He didn’t dare take a breath, didn’t dare move, watching Sheridan’s face for any sign of his reaction. He was betting a great deal on Sheridan’s desire and affection for him, when in truth, he had no idea how strong those things were.

“Frank, not to belittle your offer, but I already have you.”

“No, you don’t,” Frank said. “You own me. And yeah, you can fuck me whenever you want, but you don’t really have me. And I think you know that.”

Sheridan sat up a little straighter, looking thoughtful. And right then and there, Frank knew that this audacious gamble was going to pay off. “I will do whatever you want me to do. Say whatever you want me to say, be whoever you want me to be.”

“I . . . I see.”

“This could be amazing,” he said, lowering his voice to a breathy whisper. “We could be amazing.”

“Then tell me you love me.”

It took a second for the words to compute, for Frank to understand that the bold command was actually a test; one that he couldn’t afford to fail.

He slid down from the comfort of the sofa to the floor so that he was on his knees. Placing his hands atop Sheridan’s thighs, he tilted his head back so he could look at the man’s face. He could do this. He already knew he would do anything for Gerard. Had known from the moment he’d woken up this morning and had been greeted by stony, awkward silence.

And this . . . what was this in comparison to the things he’d already done, the depths to which he’d already sank?

“I love you.”

“Do you?”

“God, yes.”

“How much?”

“So much. So much it hurts.”

It was a victory when Sheridan pulled him into a devouring kiss, when he whispered the words, come with me now, against his mouth.

“Where?”

“I know a place. A hotel. It’s not far.”

“All right, sir.”

“No. If we’re going to do this, let’s do it right. Call me Jack.”

“All right, Jack.” The name felt foreign on his tongue; wrong, like a taboo.

Sheridan stood, pulling Frank up with him. “I’ll cancel my appointments. We can probably get a few hours together.”

“Ok.”

“Oh, and Frank?”

“Yes?”

“Gerard is yours.”

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was several hours later when Frank finally made his way back to his and Gerard’s room.   
He walked inside, feeling tired and achy and unclean; tainted in a way that he hadn’t felt since the first time Sheridan had kissed him.

But none of that seemed to matter as much when his gaze fell upon Gerard. The other man was sitting on top of the bed, plucking at the guitar with slow, deliberate movements. Frank cleared his throat. “Still suck at guitar, huh?”

Gerard looked up and shrugged, a hint of an embarrassed smile playing at his lips. “Guitars hate me,” he said as he set it aside. “I don’t even know why I try.”

Frank smiled briefly before walking over to the bed and sitting down. “Listen, Gerard, about yesterday. The things I said - they were cruel and they were wrong. I just, sometimes things get so bizarre here, and I . . . it’s like I forget myself, forget who I am, or who I used to be. But that’s no excuse and I’m sorry. Please forgive me?”

Gerard nodded. “I’m sorry too. I know you’ve been through a lot of shit and it was so unfair of me to say you hadn’t.”

“So are we ok?”

“Yeah. Yeah, we are.”

“Cool,” Frank said.

And just like that it was over. Like so many of their fights, it had flared up quickly, burned hot for a while, but was easily extinguished. In such a topsy-turvy world, it was a comfort to know that some things remained constant.

“Frank?”

“Yeah?”

“Where were you?”

Inwardly, Frank groaned. He should have known Gerard wouldn’t just let the fact that he’d disappeared for hours go.

“When?” he asked, making an effort at playing dumb.

“You weren’t at lunch or dinner.”

“Don’t worry about that.”

“Were you with him? With Master?”

“You know what? Can we not talk about him? Can it just be about you and me for once?”

Gerard gave a hesitant nod. “Yeah, ok, but, I just want you to know - I’m going to be better, Frank. I’m not going to give him any reason to get rid of me.”

Frank cradled Gerard’s face in his hands, thumbs brushing against the silken skin. “I know you won’t.”

They came together just as they always did, slowly, almost hesitant at first, bumping noses until they tilted their heads and found the right angles. Except that this time, Frank could see Gerard’s face when he pulled away, could see the blush on his cheeks and the dazed warmth in his eyes.

“God, Gerard. What is this? What are we doing?”

Gerard pulled away, dropping his gaze to where his hands were twisting in his lap. “I don’t know.” He bit his lip and looked up. “Why? Do you think it’s wrong?”

“No. That’s just it. I don’t think it’s wrong. And that’s what’s confusing the hell out of me. I’ve known you for years and I’ve never thought about you like that. Not once.”

“Not even all the times we made out on stage?” Gerard asked. There was a slyness to the question, both in his voice and in his eyes that called to mind the old Gerard, the one with the mischievous bent to his sense of humor.

Frank grinned, happy to see a small glimpse of the past, hopeful for what it meant for the future. “Not even then,” he said.

But only seconds later, Gerard underwent a startling transformation. Gone was the trickster with the gleam in his eye. Back was the sad and uncertain figure, the one with an air of tragedy that clung to him like a funeral shroud. “I don’t know what this is either and I’m just as confused as you are,” he said. “More, I think. I mean, anybody else touches me and I wig out, but with you . . . it’s different. I feel so safe with you. And I know that you’ll never hurt me. Well,” he amended, “my heart knows it, even if my head always doesn’t.”

“Oh, Gee . . . ”

“But I understand if you don’t want this - whatever it is. There’s no pressure. I mean, I’m pretty fucked up. I don’t really know how much I’ve got to give right now.”

“You know what?” Frank said, taking Gerard’s twisting hands and causing them to still. “I’ll take whatever you can give me.”

“What are you saying?”

“I'm saying that I’m tired of fighting this. It means that I want you.” He lifted one of Gerard’s hands to his mouth, kissing the knuckles with something akin to reverence. “If you’ll have me.”


	15. Chapter 15

Jack Sheridan breathed the long and lingering sigh of the truly content as he lay back against the hotel bed’s soft pillows. He and Frank had explored numerous scenarios in the three months since they’d come to their arrangement regarding Gerard. Some silly, some risque, some downright blush worthy, but the one they had explored tonight was his favorite and the one that he kept coming back to; the one of the adoring lover.

Heated gazes, low moans, sweet caresses and sated smiles - these were the things that he and his wife should be sharing. The things he and his wife hadshared, before she’d lost their third child. He had thought their marriage strong enough to get through the loss together. But he had been so wrong. After the miscarriage, she’d grown a little colder each day, until that frost touched every aspect of their relationship. Eventually, they drifted apart, strangers who shared a house, a name and a once idyllic past.

The worse things became, the more he would turn to his slaves to fill the aching void left by his decimated marriage. At first the need was physical, easily filled by late night visits to the quarters of those he deemed most attractive.

And then Frank had entered his world and had changed everything by kneeling down before him and offering himself like a sacrifice. And suddenly it was no longer just about gaining the physical pleasure denied to him by his wife. It was about having someone stare up at him as if he were the only thing in the world that mattered.

But it wasn’t just anybody that he was playing these games of love and seduction with. It was Frank. The one he’d been irresistibly drawn to since the moment he’d laid eyes on him in that cold, harsh cell.

The door to the adjoining bathroom opened and Frank stepped out, one towel wrapped around his waist, another in his hands working at his wet, dripping hair. His skin was still damp from the shower and it seemed to shine in the quiet glow of the room.

Sheridan held his hand out, palm up. “What took you so long?” he asked.

Frank slung the towel around the back of his neck and took hold of Sheridan’s hand. “I’m sorry, but that shower is amazing. It’s a hundred times better than the one at home.”

Sheridan couldn’t deny the sliver of satisfaction that ran through him at hearing Frank refer to the mansion as home. He pulled him forward, so that Frank had no choice but to topple onto the bed.

“I’m wet,” Frank laughed.

“I don’t care,” he said, silencing any further protest with a kiss. To his credit, Frank returned the kiss with ardor, rubbing his body against his, slow and languid like the ebb and flow of a tide. He was behaving exactly like someone enjoying a late evening tryst with their lover should behave.

The only thing that marred Sheridan’s enjoyment of the moment was the knowledge that it was all a lie. He knew that what he was seeing was not Frank’s true face, but a mask, one worn at his behest, his order. Frank was a consummate actor, ever able to read the unseen script, never once letting the mask slip, no matter which one he was told to wear - be it cherished lover or sullied whore.

“Your lips are going to be my downfall,” he muttered, his hand snaking upward to catch at the wet strands of Frank’s hair, tugging just enough to expose his throat and pull a moan from his lips.

Frank had closed his eyes, but now opened them, gazing up at Sheridan through a fringe of black lashes. “The world is changed because you are made of ivory and gold. The curves of your lips rewrite history.”

He pulled away, releasing Frank’s hair. “What was that?”

“Oh,” Frank said, his cheeks coloring. “I heard that in a movie once. Thought it was cool. What you said - it reminded me of it.”

“A movie?” Sheridan asked, unfamiliar with the term.

“Yeah. Well, I looked it up. It’s really from a book by Oscar Wilde.”

“Wilde?” he asked, scanning his memory for the name and coming up empty. “It must be something from your world, then.”

“Mm . . . yes.” Frank turned his gaze to the bed, his lips pulling down into a frown. Where before there had been a light playfulness about him, now there was only sadness. It seemed to radiate off of him, heating Sheridan’s skin with its intensity.

“Hey.” He placed his fingers underneath Frank’s chin, tipping it up. “You ok?”

“Of course I am, Jack.” The smile that accompanied the statement was open, bright and sunny. But it was an illusion, one that Sheridan didn’t particularly want to see. Right now, he wanted the real Frank, mask discarded, soul open and exposed.

“No. Really.” He didn’t have to elaborate or push. He knew that Frank would understand that he wanted the truth.

Frank shrugged, the smile slowly losing its wattage until only a grim shadow of it remained. “Sometimes it catches me off guard - how much I miss home. I try not to think about it, my world, because it just . . . it just hurts too much. But sometimes I can’t help it.” He attempted another smile, crooked this time and sweet in its genuineness. “That’s all.”

Sighing, Sheridan moved Frank’s body, pliant as a doll’s, until his head rested just under his chin. As he talked, his lips brushed against Frank’s damp hair. “You were a famous guitarist? In your world?”

“I don’t know about famous. A lot of people liked us, though.”

“And Gerard? He sang?”

“Gerard did more than sing. He was our leader, I guess.” Frank’s voice grew stronger, ringing clear with what could only be pride. “He was . . . he was the messiah.”

“Messiah?”

“You should have seen how people looked up to him. It really was like a form of worship. I mean, they liked us all, but with Gerard . . . it was special.” Frank uncurled his body from Sheridan’s, tilting his head up, the emotion in his eyes making them appear luminescent. “He gave people back their lives. He was their beacon when they had nothing else. You should have seen him then. You should have known him then.”

“It’s hard to imagine Gerard like that.”

“I know. That fucking bastard broke him so bad.”

“Frank, that’s a freeman you’re talking about,” he admonished. Not because he really wanted to, he couldn’t care less about Silas Beecher, but because he felt he had to.

“I’m sorry. I just get so angry sometimes.”

“Tell me something,” he said. “Have I broken you?” He was curious now, wanting the answer yet dreading it at the same time.

Frank stared at him a moment, searching, as if trying to determine if they had started a new game. “Do you want to?” he finally asked.

“No.”

Frank dropped his head back down, his fingers splayed wide across Sheridan’s chest. “Then I’m not broken.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Gerard stood in front of the communal bathroom’s large mirror, staring at his reflection as if it were a stranger’s. Using the tips of his fingers, he traced the contours of his face on the glass with his left hand. In his right, he held a razor, clutching it so tightly that it bit into his skin.

He had hated his face when he was younger. It had been too full, too soft, and it had branded him as different. He’d grown into it as time had passed and had come to appreciate the fact that he didn’t look like everyone else.

But now, staring at himself in the mirror, he could feel the hatred again, as familiar to him as his own skin. He wanted nothing more than to destroy cut, slash, rend the face that stared back at him. It was his face that had caused it all, the slightly feminine features that had attracted Beecher to him in the first place.

You’re so pretty, Way. Like a girl.

How many times had he heard those words? They were like angry ghosts, those words. Long ago uttered, yet still they haunted him, echoing in his mind so fiercely that at times he really believed that he was still in Beecher’s arms, held down, hurting . . .

A thud just outside the door startled him and he gasped, dropping the razor to the floor where it landed with a clatter. He hurried to pick it up, barely noticing the droplets of blood clustered around it.

He held his breath, his mind racing to come up with a suitable excuse for his bleeding all over the bathroom floor so late at night.

He waited, muscles locked, perfectly still, until he was certain that no one was going to barge in on him. Letting his body relax, he exhaled a long, shuddering breath.

He had to hurry if he was really going to do this. That little scare had just proven that much to him.

He lifted the razor, looked down at its sharp edge before turning his gaze to the soft skin of his wrist and the blue veins beneath it.

And made a small, tentative cut.

Things shouldn’t be like this, he thought bitterly as he watched the blood welling up. Things should be getting easier, not harder. He’d been away from Beecher for more than three months now and still his presence lingered. More and more often he could imagine that he still felt his filthy touch or hear his noxious voice. The nightmares had not only not stopped, they’d been joined by flashbacks during the day, some of which were resulting in panic attacks. It had gotten to the point where he the only person’s touch that he could withstand was Frank’s.

Frank.

Just thinking of him caused a pang of such profound regret and sadness that it physically hurt. Frank with his big, doe eyes and silly, sly grin and infectious giggle. Frank and his tender kisses and gentle hands. He had loved Frank as a friend for so long and now here they were slowly growing into something more. He wished that he could find the joy in that, or at the very least comfort, but he couldn’t seem to, though God knows he had tried. He felt like a man lost and wandering in an endless fog, trying so hard to find a way out, destined to never find it.

He looked back down at his wrist, saw the marks he’d made there as he’d been trapped in his thoughts. Three total, all shallow and small. Hesitation cuts, they were called. He’d learned that sometime, back in his past life.

He didn’t want to leave Frank, knew he would leave the man devastated, but he couldn’t bear to stay. It simply hurt too much. Even now, at this moment of truth, it wasn’t Frank’s touch he remembered, not Frank’s touch that had been imprinted upon his skin.

It was Beecher’s. It would always be Beecher’s.

He clenched the razor tight and took a deep breath. He’d wasted so much time. Sheridan could bring Frank back any second. He fought not to let the images of entwined bodies and lust-soaked kisses creep into his mind. He’d never had much use for jealousy, had always considered it an empty, wasted emotion and yet lately he’d become very familiar with it.

But now was not the time for it, he told himself as he straightened. He’d let his thoughts meander again, keeping him from what he’d come here to do. He brought the razor to his wrist and whispered, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I wasn’t stronger.” The words were meant for Frank, an apology that he would never hear. He could only hope that somehow, in his own time and in his own way, Frank would understand. And forgive him.

A moment later, he dug the razor deep into the skin, inhaling sharply at the pain as he began to draw the blade higher. Vertical. He knew enough to go vertical, not horizontal, and to go as deep as he could.

The pain became agony that dropped him to his knees, yet still he continued, going until he’d cut a three-inch swath into his skin. He stopped, panting for breath, unaware of the tears that were streaming down his face.

The second arm was harder.

He couldn’t seem to hold onto the razor. It slipped from his fingers twice before he managed to get a good grip on it. Even then it was awkward. His left hand wouldn’t cooperate, lacking the strength to cut as deep as he needed to go. He tried his best, but the cut on his right wrist was shallow, barely there.

He dropped the razor and sat back shivering, looking at the damage through the strands of hair that fell across his eyes. He watched as the blood slid down his arms, staining everything it touched.

It would be over soon, he thought as he stretched his body out on the cold, tile floor. He closed his eyes, struggling to breathe through the hurt that seemed to pulse through his entire body, and waited for the moment when it would end.


	16. Chapter 16

Gerard woke to the sight of a bright, partitioned ceiling high above him. It seemed strangely familiar and his mind, which was moving at a fractured, sluggish pace, struggled to comprehend what his eyes were showing him.

Was this heaven? Hell? He hadn’t given much thought to where he’d end up when he’d taken that razor to his arms, but now he wished that he had.

Limbo, maybe? The cold sterility of it seemed to fit.

He opened and closed his eyes, lids heavy, still fighting to make sense of things, when it came to him - where he had ended up, why things seemed so familiar. He was in a hospital.

He was not dead.

He had failed.

“No.” His voice was a roughened, muted groan. “No.”

“Gerard?”

Like a marionette being controlled by strings, the sound of his name forced him to turn his head to the left. He half-expected it to be Beecher, was already preparing himself for the sight of his hated master. But it wasn’t him. It was Sheridan, his new master, sitting next to the hospital bed, hands clasped together between his knees, face so impassive it might as well have been carved from stone.

“Master,” he said, reverting back to the old honorarium. To his own ears his voice sounded weak and tremulous. He cleared his dry throat, ready to try again, when Sheridan spoke.

“It’s good to see you awake.”

“How long?” he asked. It was the first question that had popped into his mind; a testament to the human need to gauge time.

“You’ve been here a little over a day.”

He nodded at that, acknowledging the answer, before scanning the room, searching. It didn’t take long for him to realize that the one person he needed to see wasn’t there. “Frank?”

All this time, Sheridan had been slouching forward, posture relaxed. At the mention of Frank’s name however, he straightened, lips pressing together in a tight line. Gerard felt a subtle wave of anger, felt it directed toward him. “Frank’s at home, Gerard. Under sedation. He became hysterical when he saw you. He thought you were dead. We thought it best to keep him under until we knew for certain that you were going to make it.”

For some reason, the thought of Frank lying somewhere in that large mansion, forced into insensibility, caused Gerard’s stomach to turn mercilessly. He turned his head, moving to place the heels of his hands against his eyes, when he caught sight of his arms. The right arm was bandaged heavily. The left was in a cast from his elbow to his wrist.

They didn’t hurt; the drugs in his system were seeing to that. But as he stared at them and the tiny spots of blood leaking through the white bandage, he began to imagine that he could feel them, that he could feel the stitching holding his tattered flesh together. His imagination, the one that had seen him through so many lonely days, was turning on him now and he could almost literally see a dark, black thread, thick like Frankenstein’s, running up and down his arms. He gagged on that last vision, struggling to get his arms underneath him, desperate to push himself up. But he had no strength, and he simply fell back against the bed.

“Oh God . . . ”

“Gerard? What’s wrong?”

“Sick. Gonna be . . . sick.”

Sheridan acted with no hesitation, grabbing an empty bedpan with one hand while hauling Gerard up by the waist with the other.

The bedpan directly below him, Gerard huddled against Sheridan and began to retch. There was precious little in his system to bring up, and he ended up dry heaving until his stomach ached and his throat burned and he was left gasping and shuddering.

When his stomach had at last mercifully stilled, Sheridan gave him some water to rinse out his mouth before easing him back onto the bed and covering him up with the sheets.

“Better?”

Gerard gave a weak nod. What little strength he had was now depleted and he felt immeasurably exhausted. Still, he fought to keep his eyes open.

“The doctor said you’re going to be really tired for a few days. Said you would need a lot of sleep.”

“Frank.”

“You’re going to see him soon.”

Gerard tried to shake his head, although he was fairly certain that he didn’t move an inch. “Need Frank,” he insisted.

“Go to sleep, Gerard. I’ll let Frank know you’re all right.”

But the words were nearly meaningless, as Gerard’s eyes were already fluttering closed, his fight lost.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The next time Gerard opened his eyes, Sheridan was nowhere in sight. There was a doctor though, a different one from the last time he’d been here, and a nurse by his side. They were standing at the foot of his bed, heads bowed over his chart, talking quietly.

Silent and still, he watched them until they looked up and realized that he was awake.

This doctor introduced himself as Dr. Maloy and the nurse as Jacob before turning his attention to performing an exam.

“We repaired the damage to the tendon in your left arm during surgery,” the doctor told him. “If it heals as it should, you should regain full mobility in about six weeks time. You were very lucky, Gerard.”

Gerard could feel harsh, bitter laughter welling up within him at the thought of how lucky he’d been. He managed to hold that laughter back only just in time.

“There was so much blood. I thought for sure . . . ”

Gerard wasn’t even aware that he’d spoken aloud until Dr. Maloy answered him. “Well, you did manage to get the artery. That’s no mean feat. But someone found you before you lost too much.”

“Who, sir?” he whispered, praying it had been anyone but Frank.

But the doctor didn’t know and a moment later he excused himself to go attend to other patients, leaving Gerard alone with his new nurse.

This nurse, Jacob, was nothing like Roy had been. Where Roy had been warm and his concern genuine, this man could barely be bothered to say two words to him.

He watched as Jacob checked the bandage on his right arm, as cold and efficient as a machine. And even though the other man was in the same room with him, tending to him, Gerard had never felt so alone.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Only a day later and Gerard was already bored out of his mind. There was nothing to do, nothing to occupy him except for thoughts of how badly he’d messed everything up. He stared down at his arms and tried not to imagine the stitched skin underneath, tried not to imagine Frank crying over him, hysterical and inconsolable.

He knew that they were going to release him soon and he was dreading going back to the mansion and having to face Frank, to look him in the eye and try to explain why he had done this. But he was equally tired of being here, treated like dirt by people who could barely deign to look at him. Once again he was at odds with himself, and it was making him feel restless and jittery. He finally figured that the best thing he could do was sleep, that it would pass the time if nothing else.

He had just closed his eyes, turning his head in search of some comfort on the hospital bed when he heard the sound of footsteps approaching.

He opened his eyes, ready to face the doctor or Jacob, maybe even his master, when he saw that it wasn’t any of them. It was Roy who was walking toward him, wearing a sad smile on his pleasant face. “Hey, Gerard.” He sat down in the empty chair by the bed, bringing it as close as he could to Gerard’s side.

“Roy. What are you doing here?”

“I found out you were here,” Roy said. He placed his hand atop Gerard’s head, his fingers curling into the long strands of hair. It was a touch without any underlying innuendo or need; a touch existing only to comfort, and Gerard leaned into it, cat-like. “I had to come see you. Especially after I found out what happened.”

“I’m so glad you’re here. You don’t know how good it is to see you.”

“You want to tell me what happened?”

Gerard glanced down at his arms and shrugged. “I guess I tried to kill myself. Tried being the operative word.”

Gerard didn’t bother with censoring himself. Roy was the only person with blond hair he could be himself with; the only one with whom he didn’t have to scrape and bow and insert the word sir into every other sentence. Despite this, or maybe because of it, he had more respect for Roy than any other freeperson in this godforsaken dimension.

“Why would you do that?” Roy asked.

“You of all people should know the answer to that.”

“Look, I read your chart. I know that you belong to someone else now. The mayor, of all people.”

“Yeah.”

“Is he worse than Beecher?”

“No. No, he’s all right,” Gerard admitted. “He took me away from Beecher. Put me in the same home with Frank.”   
“Frank? Your friend?”

Gerard had told Roy all about Frank during his previous stay here although he hadn’t elaborated on how they’d stumbled into this dimension through sheer bad luck. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Roy, but he’d grown tired of being thought of as crazy. He knew that Roy, despite being a good person, would never believe him. Roy had assumed that he and Frank had known in each other in training camp and then had been sold to separate owners. Gerard had never corrected him.

“Yes, my friend,” he answered.

“Then what, Gerard? If you were away from Beecher, then why?”

“I couldn’t let it go. Any of it. And I just got tired of it. Of the nightmares and the panic attacks and always feeling dirty and ashamed and wrong.”

“Gerard . . . ”

“What he did to me. What they did to me. I just . . . I couldn’t let it go.”

“Look, I know how hard this must be–”

“No, you don’t,” he said, forcefully cutting Roy off. He regretted it instantly and stuttered out an apology.

“No. It’s ok,” Roy said. “And you’re right, I don’t know. All I can do is imagine. But Gerard, this wasn’t the answer.”

Gerard wished that he could describe it, the black cancer of despair that had been eating away at him. He wanted to make Roy understand that he’d been suffocating, that he’d been nearly dead already and that the slashing of his wrists had seemed the only logical path to take. But his brain was fuzzy, a creeping lethargy beginning to overtake him, and he couldn’t seem to make his thoughts translate into speech. He finally sighed, frustrated, and muttered, “I just wanted the pain to stop.”

Roy leaned forward, dropping his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Look, I know it’s unpopular to even mention the old religion, but Gerard, I think God’s given you a second chance here.”

“God?”

“If you don’t feel comfortable with the notion of God, then fine. But I think you need to see that you do have a second chance.”

“I didn’t want a second chance. I didn’t ask for it. I didn’t want it.”

Roy sat back, but did not pull his hand away. “Well, whether you wanted it or not, it’s here. So what are you going to do with it, Gerard?”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Only a few hours later, Sheridan and his aide, Michael, came to take Gerard home.

With their help he sat down in the back of the car, Sheridan easing in beside him while Michael drove. Gerard leaned his head against the window as the car started forward, watching the world pass by in a dizzying kaleidoscope of color.

“You know, Gerard, in this world, if a dark-haired attempts suicide, serious thought is given to whether or not they should be put down.”

Gerard turned away from the window, so shocked by what he had heard that he could only gape at Sheridan.

Sheridan nodded. “A slave that’s mentally unbalanced is a liability,” he said evenly, almost casually, as if he were conversing about the weather.

“You put them down? Like dogs?”

“It’s done humanely. One could consider it a kindness. After all, the slave wanted to die, right?”

“Is that what you’re going to do to me, sir? Put me down?”

“Is that what you want me to do?”

The question caused Gerard’s mouth to snap shut, his body to pull away instinctively. Was it what he wanted? Did he want to die? Not too long ago, he had wanted nothing more than to bleed out on that bathroom floor. Now he wasn’t so sure. He stared at Sheridan, suspicion in his eyes, aware that the man was leading him down a specific path. He just didn’t know what that path was.

“I know what happened to you, Gerard,” Sheridan continued when it became clear that no answer was forthcoming. “Besides what you’ve been through with Silas. I know that he gave you to his friends. Things like that happen all the time to dark-haired’s, most would have handled it just fine, but you’re not a typical dark-hair, are you?”

Gerard’s mouth felt numb. It took great effort to open it, to force nerveless lips to move. “How do you know about that?”

“You’re from a place where this never would have happened to you. So you handled it badly, and it turned into an assault.”

He felt the hot sting of his tears moments before they blinded him. “The hospital told you.”

“Of course they did. You’re mine now. They felt I should know.”

He nodded, head down, wiping at his face. “Of course.”

“I have no intention of putting you down, Gerard. I like you. Everyone in the house likes you. And Frank loves you. I can’t even describe what he was like when he thought you were dead.” As Gerard watched, Sheridan’s pale hand descended on his thigh.

Gerard sniffed, an attempt to forestall the inevitable crying jag. “He must have been so scared.”

“Yes, he was,” Sheridan said, and Gerard felt it again, that same suggestion of anger that he had felt in the hospital.

“I didn’t mean for that to happen. I swear I didn’t,” he said.

The hand on his thigh squeezed, not hard, just enough to be noticed. “I need to know if you’re going to try this again. I need to know if you want to die.”

The inevitable came and the tears began to fall. Softly at first, harder as Gerard realized that his answer wasn’t going to be an answer at all. “A part of me does. A part of me wants that oblivion. But there’s a part of me that’s trying really hard to believe in second chances.”

Gerard watched as the hand on his thigh slid away. He looked up to find that Sheridan was very close now, their legs nearly touching, face only inches away from his own.

“I’m sorry, sir. I want to be honest with you. I really do. After everything you’ve done for me, that’s the least I can do. But I just don’t know. I just don’t know.”

“Well,” Sheridan said, taking the liberty of wiping away the tears that were falling against Gerard’s skin. “I guess we take it one day at a time then, don’t we?”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

After nearly a half hour’s drive, they pulled up at the mansion. Sheridan excused himself, saying he had other things to attend to, leaving Michael to help Gerard into the house and up to his room.

After depositing him in the empty bed with care, Michael excused himself as well. Gerard thanked him, watched as he walked out the door before turning his gaze to the rest of the room, searching for Frank. But the room was small, and it was clear that he was alone.

He sighed, lying back against his pillow. He wasn’t sure if he was more disappointed or relieved, his need to see Frank tempered by his fear of what they would say to each other.

Figuring that Frank was down in the kitchen and would be there all day, Gerard settled back to think on what he could possibly say to him.

Barely two minutes had passed however, when Frank entered the room, wordlessly pulling the room’s lone chair next to the bed to sit down. He bowed his head, clasping his hands in front of him, unknowingly copying Sheridan’s stance from that first day in the hospital.

“Frank?”

Frank lifted his head, finally allowing Gerard to see his face. His eyes were dull, the life having been bled from them, the skin underneath them dark and smudged. He looked like a prisoner of war, torn down and beaten.

“I thought you were dead,” Frank said and his voice matched his eyes. “When we came home, the paramedics were already here, working on you. There was so much blood, I thought you had to be dead.”

Before Gerard could answer, Frank’s eyes, which had been set resolutely on Gerard’s face, began to wander, taking in his body before finally resting on the cast on his left arm.

“Oh, fuck,” he said, and suddenly his voice was alive with pain. And as much as it had hurt to hear Frank speaking like the dead, this was worse. “Fuck this. I can’t do this,” Frank said, his body jerking, seconds from bolting.

“Frank, wait.”

“Look at what you did. Look at what you did to yourself.”

“I know. I know.”

“Shit. Oh shit. Your arms, Gerard.”

“It’s not . . . it looks worse than it is. Please.”

Frank brought a hand up to his mouth, shaking his head again and again. He had gone very pale, his skin now a paper white, the dark smudges under his eyes brutally obscene.

“Do you hate me?” Gerard asked quietly.

“I could never hate you, Gerard. God, I could never hate you. But I’m angry. I’m so fucking mad at you.”

Gerard felt weak with relief. Anger he could deal with. Anger was a temporary emotion. He held out his hand, beckoning. “Frank . . . ”

But Frank edged back, out of his reach. “Why would you do this?” he asked. His voice sounded anguished, as if his vocal chords had been scraped raw. “You’re free from him. You’ve got me now and I’ve done everything I can to help you. Why would you do that?”

“But I’m not really free, Frank. It never stops hurting. And I was so tired. So fucking tired.”

Frank jumped up from the chair, sending it toppling to the floor. “And I’m not? Do you think any of this has been easy for me? You don’t think that some days I just want to curl up and go to sleep and never wake up? But I don’t. I keep going. For you. I keep going for you.”

“I didn’t know . . . I didn’t think that–”

“That’s it just, Gerard. Sometimes you don’t think.” He paused, turned his head and chuffed out a breath of disgust. “Or you just think about yourself.”

That hurt, cut worse than the razor. And yet Gerard couldn’t argue, couldn’t deny that it was true. All he’d thought about in that moment of despair was himself. His concern for Frank and what it would do to him had been cursory and fleeting at best.

“I know. I’m sorry.”

Frank shook his head, denying the existence of the apology. He took a step back, colliding with the chair and almost losing his footing.

“Frank, don’t leave.”

Righting himself, he maneuvered around the chair and continued backward, his head whipping endlessly from side to side. “I can’t . . . I can’t do this. Not right now.”

“Frank, stop. Please.”

“No,” he said. “No.” And with a final, violent shake of his head, Frank disappeared through the open door.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

After leaving the room, Frank wandered through the huge expanse of mansion, stumbling into walls and careening off of them like a pinball.

The tears that were threatening to fall weren’t letting him see. He wiped at them angrily, only to have more take their place. He finally gave up, relying on memory to get him to the gardens where he sat down heavily on a stone bench and dropped his head into his hands.

After a few minutes he felt a hand on his shoulder. He didn’t have to look to see that it was his master. He knew that touch intimately, better than Gerard’s, better than Jamia’s.

“Frankie.”

The sound of his name beckoned him and he turned his head to find Sheridan sitting down beside him. A moment later he felt the touch of Sheridan’s hand, stroking him from the crown of his head to the middle of his back. He kept repeating the gesture and after a while Frank realized that he was being petted. Maybe he should have found it demeaning, been affronted, but he really didn’t care. If anything, he found it soothing and his body leaned into it, seeking the physical comfort.

“I really thought that everything would be ok once he was here,” Frank said. “I mean, I knew he’d been through hell, but I thought . . . I don’t know, that I could fix him if I just had him with me. That if I just loved him enough that things would be ok.”

“I know.”

“But that’s not the way it’s going to be, is it?” he asked, his voice coming perilously close to breaking. He could feel it within him, a rising tide of darkness that was threatening to overwhelm him. He felt sick, literally nauseous, and he placed a hand over his stomach as if that simple action could quell it. “Every time I close my eyes, even just to fucking blink, I see him. Dead, all that blood . . . Oh God.”

And there it was, the darkness, its snaking tendrils sharp as knives as they burrowed into his body, claiming him, dragging him under. He was spinning, nearly choking on his own tears, barely feeling Sheridan’s arms wrap around his body to hold him up.

“Oh God. What am I doing? I don’t know what I’m doing.”

He fell forward, clutching at Sheridan’s shirt, the words barely intelligible past his ragged sobs. “What am I doing? What am I doing?”

He turned the words into a litany of desperation, spilling them out faster and faster until their meaning could no longer be discerned. Everything that had happened to him, all the emotions that he’d repressed, everything he hadn’t allowed himself to feel, was here.

He gave into it, after nearly a year of submission and degradation and worry and fear, a year in which he’d been stripped of everything, he was finally giving in. He lost himself to it, and for a very long time all he knew was the feel his heart clenching painfully within his chest and the sound of his own sobs, the bitterness of his own tears.

Eventually, the tears slowed, then stopped altogether. And at the end, he lay collapsed in Sheridan’s arms, feeling hollow and empty, like he’d cried out everything inside of him until there was nothing left.

“Come on, Frankie. We’re going to get you to bed.”

“Don’t want to see him now. Can’t,” he whispered. His throat felt thick, almost damaged, and he could barely breathe.

“I’ll find another room for you. At least for now. You need to rest.”

Frank wanted to wipe away the drying tears, to regain some semblance of dignity, but his trembling arm made it no higher than a couple of inches before it dropped to his side. “I’m sorry, sir.”

“Sh . . . don’t be sorry. Can you walk?”

“I think so.”

Sheridan lifted him so that they were both standing, but Frank’s legs slipped out from under him. He would have dropped to the ground if not for his master’s quick reflexes. “Just need a minute,” he murmured.

“It’s all right. Come on, baby.”

And then he was in Sheridan’s arms, being carried across the gardens like a damsel in distress.

In another world, his other lifetime, Frank would have been mortified. Now, he merely tucked his head under Sheridan’s chin, eyes already closing. He was so tired, wrung out, exhausted.

True to his word, Sheridan found a room for him to lie down in. It was someone else’s room, but it was empty now and therefore perfect.

As soon as Frank’s body touched the mattress, he curled up, going as small as possible.

“I want you to sleep. You need it.”

Frank nodded. Sleep. Sleep was good. Sleep was oblivion.

“I’ll stay with you for a few minutes, all right?”

Frank’s hand darted out from the protection of his body, landing on Sheridan’s arm. He was very tired now, knew he would be asleep within seconds.

“Yes. Please, Jack.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Frank awoke hours later to find himself alone. He pulled the covers away and swung his legs to the floor. Taking a deep breath, he took stock. Despite the throbbing headache, probably from all the crying, he felt better than he had in days. The small breakdown had been necessary, long overdue, but it was also necessary that it be short-lived. He had to be strong, for Gerard’s sake and his own.

He walked out into the hallway, noting with surprise that he was only two doors down from his and Gerard’s room. He entered it and saw that Gerard was curled up on his side, asleep, his bandaged arms at awkward angles.

He ignored the upended chair and sat down on the edge of the bed, brushing his fingertips against Gerard’s cheek until his eyelids fluttered open.

“Mm . . . ” Gerard mumbled, his gaze still sleepy and disoriented.

“Hey,” Frank whispered.

Gerard’s eyes cleared at the sound of his voice and he attempted to sit up.

Frank placed a hand on his chest. “Lie back down. You’re supposed to rest.”

Gerard grimaced but settled back down, turning onto his back. “You’ve been crying.”

Frank wiped at his eyes self-consciously. “I know. I look like shit.”

“No. No, you look beautiful.”

“Right.” Frank smirked and rolled his eyes, both embarrassed by the compliment and absurdly touched by it.

“Frank, I know I hurt you. And maybe it’s too early to ask this, but - I want to make this right. Please tell me how I can make this right.”

Frank nodded. He had been expecting this. He knew what to say. He inhaled deeply, blowing the air out through his nose slowly. There were still vestiges of the anger left, perhaps there always would be, but he would not allow them to mar this. This was too important. “I’ll forgive you on one condition.”

“Name it. Anything.”

“That you never try anything like this again. I don’t care how much you’re hurting. I don’t. You fight through it. You let me help you, or you let someone else help you. But you never try this again.”

“Frank, I don’t know if I can.”

“If you love me at all, if you care for me at all, you will promise me this. You owe me this, Gee. And in return I promise that I will get you through this. But you have to step up. You have to want this, and you have to let me help you.”

“This is what it’s going to take? For you to forgive me?”

Frank gave a firm nod. He wasn’t about to let Gerard know that he’d already forgiven him.

Gerard looked down, chewing lightly on his bottom lip. Frank took that as a good sign. It meant that Gerard was taking his time with this, thinking about it. It meant that if he did agree, that his promise would be sincere.

Gerard finally looked up. “Ok.”

“Really? You promise?”

Gerard gave a shaky nod. “I promise. But you have to know that I never meant to hurt you, Frank. I just wanted things to stop hurting.”

“I know, baby,” he said, and the words didn’t feel as foreign on his tongue as he would have thought. “But you did hurt me. When I thought I’d lost you, I died too.” He rolled his eyes at the melodramatic statement. “I know that sounds . . . stupid, but it’s the truth.”

“It doesn’t sound stupid. It sounds honest and painful and it fucking kills me to hear it, because I’m the one who did that to you.”

Frank lifted Gerard’s hand, holding it in his own. It was the right hand, the one that wore the bandage, and he stroked the back of it with care. “Just remember your promise. Remember that we’re in this together, and we’ll be all right.”

“We can forget this ever happened?”

“We don’t forget,” he said, tracing where he imagined the stitches to be with his fingertips. “This is a part of us now. We remember and we overcome it.”

Gerard emitted a shaky laugh. “When the hell did you become wiser than me?”

Frank smiled. He could feel the tension draining from his body, from the room. “They always underestimate the young one,” he said in mock exasperation.

Gerard returned the smile before growing serious. He looked down at their intertwined hands. “I love you, you know.”

“I love you too.” Then, with a fondness that not only took the sting off the word, but turned it into an endearment, Frank added, “Idiot.”


	17. Chapter 17

Silas Beecher sat inside his house, his fifth beer of the night in hand, and let his thoughts go dark, letting them drift inexorably toward his lost slave.

Monetarily, he’d been compensated for Gerard. Compensated quite well, in fact. He’d immediately taken the mayor’s money and used it to buy a new slave - one with dark brown hair and hazel eyes and fine features that bordered on feminine.

He’d had no illusions about what he was doing; he had been well aware that he was trying to replace Gerard.

Unfortunately, the substitute had been a poor one and he’d sold him after only a couple of miserable weeks. After that, there followed a second and then a third, two more failed attempts to duplicate what he had had with Gerard.

He finished off the beer, tossing the empty can to the ground before opening another one.

It had taken him all this time to figure out what it was about Gerard that fascinated him so. It had taken him all this time to realize why he would never be satisfied with anyone else.

It wasn’t just the fact that Gerard was beautiful, although he was. There was more to it than that - so much more.

From the moment of birth, dark-haired’s were taught to submit to their superiors. This they did without question, without shame, without thought.

But with Gerard, no matter how obedient he became, no matter how subservient, there would always be something in his eyes that bespoke of the pain and humiliation that he was suffering through.

Whereas every other mongrel had been broken and shaped into a slave long ago, Gerard could be broken over and over again. With him the possibilities were endless.

Beecher finished off the beer and started on yet another one. It wasn’t fair, he thought to himself. Gerard had been given to him. He had owned him, he had trained him, he was the one that had put in the effort and the time just to have him taken away. It wasn’t right and it wasn’t fair and that asshole Sheridan shouldn’t be allowed to get away with it.

He stood and threw the beer can, mostly full, across the room, feeling a small measure of satisfaction when he heard it collide against something. He would not sit here moping and crying about what had been done to him. He would go and get Gerard back.

He would get Gerard back tonight.

He would bring him home and he would never let anyone take him from him ever again.

He walked out the front door, stumbling the entire way, already anticipating the look on Gerard’s face.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

“Hey, you’re not going to sleep on me, are you? The night’s still young.”

Frank cracked open one eye and barely managed to suppress a yawn.

Nearly five weeks had passed since Gerard had tried to end his life and Frank had been watching him like a hawk ever since - watching for any sign, the smallest nuance, that he was falling back into the hopelessness that had very nearly claimed him.

Frank was tired, the constant vigilance had long ago started to wear him down; that and the nightmares. And the position he was currently in, lying across the bed, his head on Gerard’s lap, Gerard’s hand caressing his hair, wasn’t helping.

And yet he still lied. “No, I’m good. I’m awake.”

It was disconcerting how easily lying came to him now. Whether they were big lies or small, harmless ones like the one just uttered didn’t seem to matter, they all flowed out of him with the same sickening ease. But he was not about to burden Gerard with anything, not even something as trivial as his exhaustion, when he was still so fragile.

“I see.”

Gerard’s hand continued to rake through his hair gently, causing a pleasant tingling sensation to run from his scalp down to his back. He shivered, once again closing his eye, and surrendered to it.

“So . . . ” Gerard said.

“So,” he muttered lazily.

“I um . . . I heard you last night. Sounded like you were having a pretty wicked dream.”

Frank’s eyes shot open, his body tensing. He would have sworn that Gerard was oblivious to the nightmares. “Oh. I don’t know,” he said offhandedly. “Maybe, I guess.”

“Do you remember it?”

“Not really.”

“Yeah. The thing is, it’s not the first time. I’ve heard you before. You toss and turn and you moan and you mumble things. You don’t usually wake up completely though, not like me.”

“Yeah. I guess I haven’t been sleeping all that great,” he admitted. “It’s no big deal. They’ll go away.”

“Are you dreaming about me, Frank?” Gerard asked abruptly. “About what I did?”

Before Frank could throw out another lie, because of course he’d been dreaming about that, Gerard spoke again. “Or maybe you’re dreaming about Master.”

Frank pushed himself away from the comfort of Gerard’s lap and sat up. “Why would you think they’re about him?”

“I thought, maybe, it had started to bother you. How often he . . . you know,” Gerard said, making a vague gesture with his hand. “It’s no secret that you’re his favorite, Frank. I mean, he gets you more than he gets anybody. He even takes you out of the mansion. He never does that with anyone else.”

“No. He doesn’t favor me. You’re wrong.”

“No, I’m not. I’m not blind. Besides, I’m not the only one that thinks it.”

“Who else thinks it?”

“Everybody.”

“You’ve been talking to other people about how often our master fucks me?” Frank asked, his voice rising.

“Whoa, wait a minute,” Gerard said, putting his hands up in the air as if to ward off Frank’s anger. “It’s not like that.”

“What’s it like, then?”

“People gossip. They talk. And they talk in front of me. And I guess the things they’ve been saying have been making me think. Look, I know you say you’ve made peace with it. And maybe you really think you have. But subconsciously it could be coming out in the nightmares.”

“Wow, you’ve really been thinking about this, haven’t you?” he asked, his anger dampened by his curiosity.

“Well, yeah. So, talk to me.”

It was so tempting to do just that. To talk to Gerard and unburden himself. To tell him about the endless dreams of finding him dead, body sticky from the drying blood. Or maybe just to talk to him about what had been going on in his head. The pervasive feeling that he was losing himself. That fact and fiction were colliding for him so often that he no longer knew what was real or what was illusion, what was a lie and what was truth.

But he couldn’t. Maybe when Gerard was a little stronger, maybe then he could open up to him. But not now. “I don’t know what the dreams are about,” he said at length. “I don’t really remember.”

Gerard nodded, although it was easy enough to read the suspicion in his eyes. He moved closer, caressing Frank’s cheek with his hand. Frank had to avert his eyes to avoid staring at the puckered scar tissue on his arm. “I hate that he touches you. I hate it so much.”

“Gerard, don’t.”

“Sometimes I think I should try to get his interest again, maybe he’d leave you alone for a while.”

“Don’t you even think about it. Don’t fucking go there, Gerard.”

Gerard slipped even closer, his breath ghosting on Frank’s face, his eyes piercing and hungry. “You are so beautiful.”

The compliment should have made him feel good, but it didn’t. He didn’t feel deserving of it. He wasn’t beautiful. He was torn and used, withered and ugly. “Don’t.”

“You are,” Gerard insisted. “You are so beautiful. Inside and out. I don’t tell you nearly enough.”

“Gerard, what’s going on?”

The hand against his cheek pressed harder, fingertips indenting his skin. “I want to be better for you.”

“Better for me?”

“I want to be good for you like you are for me. I want to help you heal, like you help me heal.”

“Just get better for you, Gee. That’s all I want.”

Gerard shook his head. “For both of us.” He leaned forward, closing the remaining distance between them and touched his lips to Frank’s.

It was rare that Gerard ever initiated a kiss. Rarer still for that kiss to contain the passion that this one did. For a few precious seconds, Frank was too stunned to respond. Then his mind mercifully went blank, allowing his body to fully participate.

It was such a sweet kiss, both full of fire and sugar all at the same time and Frank licked his lips as he pulled away, gazing at Gerard through heavy-lidded eyes. He felt off-balance, as if he’d had too much to drink.

“If someone had told me that I’d be kissing you like this, “Gerard said, “I’d have told them they were fucking nuts.”

Frank ducked his head and chuckled. “Yeah, I know.”

“All those times we kissed on stage and it didn’t mean anything. And now . . . ”

“And now?” Frank prompted.

“Now, here, it feels like the most natural thing in the world, you know?”

“I’m so glad you said that. I didn’t want to be the only one who was feeling it.”

“What, you really thought that?”

Frank gave a quick shrug. “I wasn’t sure. Sometimes I feel like I’m pushing this.”

“Don’t think that. Ever.”

Frank was about to respond when he noticed that the kiss had done nothing to quench that look in Gerard’s eyes. He felt something inside him stir, followed by a quickening of his pulse and a tightness in his groin.

This time in was mutual, the leaning in, twin moths to a flame. They were mere millimeters apart when a voice broke into the moment.

“Am I interrupting something?”

They scrambled away from each other, blushing like teenagers caught necking.

“Hey, Becca,” Frank said

“Because I can come back later . . . ” she teased.

“We were just talking,” Frank said as he stood, shooting her a look of both amusement and embarrassment.

She grinned and waved to Gerard.

“Hi, Becca.”

Frank, meanwhile, had dropped to his knees next to the bed and was reaching underneath it. A moment later his outstretched hand came into contact with something solid and he pulled it out. It was a children’s book, found booty after one of Sheridan’s boys had carelessly dropped it in the hall.

“You ready for lesson number two?” he said, waving the book in the air.

Gerard jumped up from the bed and hurried to the door, slamming it shut. “Frank!” he hissed. “Don’t just wave that thing around. Do you know how much trouble we’d be in if we got caught?”

“Sorry.” Frank knew that Gerard wasn’t exactly on board with the plan of teaching Rebecca how to read. He’d only reluctantly agreed to it after he’d realized that Frank wasn’t going to be dissuaded from it.

It was pure serendipity that he’d found the book, discarded in a corner of the hall as he’d been coming back from a brief visit to Sheridan’s study. He’d immediately seen it as an opportunity to make a positive impact in the horrible world that they now lived in, even if just by the tiniest fraction. And the way he saw it, teaching a fellow slave to read might just be the starting ripple in a pond, going ever outward, affecting more and more. If knowledge was power, then what better way to start?

And Rebecca, who was both smart and feisty, was the perfect candidate. She’d been hesitant at first, weighing the risks and the benefits with great thought. But in the end, she had enthusiastically agreed, just as he’d known she would.

Frank opened up the book after they had settled down on the bed. “Let’s start where we left off?”

“You’re the teacher,” she said.

Gerard shook his head but stayed quiet as he sank down in the room’s unoccupied chair.

They were only about twenty minutes into the lesson when a hurried knock came at the door.

All three of them froze, staring at each other like proverbial deer in headlights. Frank broke his paralysis first, slamming the book shut and shoving it back underneath the bed in one fluid motion before running over to the door.

He opened it to find one of his fellow slaves, Paul, a younger man named who worked in the gardens with Gerard.

“Hey, what’s up?”

Paul barely blinked at Frank’s phrasing. Everyone in the house had grown accustomed to the ‘strange’ way he spoke sometimes.

“Hey, I thought you guys might want to know. There’s a blondie downstairs causing some kind of commotion. It sounds like he’s completely drunk. I’m not positive, but the way he’s talking it might be Gerard’s old master.”

“Beecher?” Gerard asked. “Here?”

Frank turned to him, easily reading the panic in his eyes. “I’ll go see what’s going on, Gee. You just stay here.”

Rebecca stood. “I’ll go with you.”

Gerard stood as well. “I want to go too. I want to see.”

“No, you can’t,” Frank said. The words came out harsher than he’d intended and he regretted them when he saw Gerard wince. “I’m sorry, but you need to stay here,” he added, softening his tone.

“But-”

“This isn’t negotiable, Gerard. You stay here.”

For a moment it looked like Gerard would argue, but then he took a step back, ceding. “Yeah, ok. Ok.”

Paul led the way down the hall and out of the servants’ area, all the way to the foyer. There was a small crowd gathering there, mostly dark-haired’s, drawn by the impassioned shouting.

“I want him back, Sheridan. He was mine. You can’t just take what’s mine.”

Frank recognized the voice. He’d only heard the man speak a handful of times and still he knew him. He began to inch forward, cursing his stature as he tried to peer over the heads of all the people that had arrived before he had.

“You were well compensated, Mr. Beecher.” That was Sheridan’s voice, managing to sound both calm and commanding.

With Rebecca at his heels, Frank eased himself up to the front of the small crowd, finally getting an unobstructed view of what was happening.

He saw Beecher, swaying and slurring, obviously drunk, and Sheridan, facing each other like two gunslingers in an old movie.

Standing farther back were two members of the mansion’s security team, by the looks of it itching to step in at any moment, except that Sheridan was keeping them back simply by holding out his hand.

“Fuck that. I’ll give you back the fucking money. I just want him back.”

“All right, Mr. Beecher. I think it best that you just go on home and sleep this off. We can discuss things in the morning. I’ll have someone drive you since you’re obviously in no condition.”

“Don’t patronize me. I don’t-”

Frank turned, curious to see what had grabbed hold of Beecher’s attention so forcefully that he’d stopped speaking mid-sentence.

That’s when he saw Gerard, leaning against the wall, as pale as the day they’d found him bleeding to death.

“Fuck,” Frank muttered, angry at himself for being so stupid. He should have known Gerard wouldn’t stay upstairs.

“There you are! I’ve come to bring you back home, Way.”

If possible, Gerard shrank back even farther against the wall, his eyes going very wide while fine tremors wove their way through his body. “No.”

“You’re not going anywhere with him, Gerard,” Sheridan said. “He was just leaving.”

“The fuck I am. Come here, Gerard.”

“No.”

“Come on. I won’t hurt you like I did before. It’ll be better this time.”

Gerard shook his head. “No, please.”

“I said, get the fuck over here, bitch!”

Gerard took a step forward before falling back against the wall, hitting it so hard that the impact echoed throughout the room. He slid down the wall until he was huddled on the floor, sobbing into his hands.

It was that small, hesitant step that did it. The fact that after all that Gerard had gone through, the beatings and the rapes and the psychological torture, that he would go to Beecher. That small step was the spark, igniting a rage that had been simmering beneath the surface.

Frank launched himself at Beecher, fully aware that Sheridan was giving security the go-ahead to get rid of the man, but unable to care. He couldn’t care. He couldn’t think. All he could do was feel, becoming a victim of the fury coursing through his body.

He hit Beecher low about the waist, tackling him and sending them both flying. He felt Beecher land on the floor with a thud, both of the sliding several feet on the marble flooring before coming to a stop.

Beecher was stronger and a better fighter but Frank had the advantage of surprise and he used it to punch the man twice in the face before he could even move to defend himself. Frank was about to throw a third punch when he decided to go for his throat instead. “You fucking bastard! You did this to him!” he shouted, his hands digging into the soft flesh of Beecher’s neck. “This is all your fault, you fucking bastard!”

Frank felt hands on his body, pulling, but he managed to hang on. He knew he didn’t have much time however, so he pressed even harder and jerked Beecher’s head back and forth, watching with sick enjoyment as his skull connected with the floor, not once but twice.

And then they finally did manage to lift him bodily, peeling his hands away from Beecher’s throat. He kicked and fought, desperate to resume his attack, until something heavy and solid hit him on the side of his head and the world spun dizzily until it went black.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Gerard had seen it all, hadn’t been able to turn away, no matter how badly he had wanted to.

After he had collapsed against the wall, someone, he wasn’t even sure who, had helped him to his feet, telling him that they were going back to his room. Gerard was about to let himself be led when he heard Frank’s growl of rage. He had turned, just in time to see Frank throw himself on top of Beecher and take him to the ground.

It was hard to see anything after that, what with everyone crowding in toward the men on the ground. Gerard could hear Frank shouting but could not make out was being said over the general din. He managed to push his way to the front of the crowd, only to see Frank get hit on the temple by one of Sheridan’s security men.

He had watched, too stunned to do more than gape, as security dragged Frank’s body away from Beecher.

The police and the paramedics had been called shortly after, the latter taking Beecher away on a stretcher, the bleeding from his head wound barely contained.

Sheridan had ordered Frank taken upstairs, then had told Gerard to go up and watch him before turning to deal with the police.

And now he sat here on the bed, watching over Frank, not sure what he wanted to do more, wrap his arms around him or pummel him.

Frank’s lips parted as a small groan escaped them, his eyelids opening a fraction only to close again a moment later.

Gerard leaned down, rubbing small circles against the back of Frank’s hand with his thumb. “That’s right, baby. Wake up now.”

Frank groaned again, longer this time, and brought his free hand up to his forehead. His eyes however stayed stubbornly closed.

“Frank, open your eyes, ok? Come on, open your eyes for me.”

Gerard continued in that vein, patiently coaxing and encouraging until Frank’s eyes opened and stayed that way.

“Gee?” Frank asked, looking and sounding terribly young. And fragile. The thought rattled him and he had to fight the urge to pull away and hide from the truth of it. Frank’s strength had been so unflagging, so constant, that he had all but forgotten that he was really just a lost, young man; a victim that had also been hurt terribly badly.

“Hey. How are you feeling?”

“My head’s killing me. What happened?”

“You don’t remember?”

Frank’s eyes were muddied with confusion. “I don’t . . . no, not really.”

“You don’t remember going off on Beecher and kicking his ass?”

As Gerard looked on, Frank’s eyes cleared, the remembrance hitting him hard. He struggled to sit up. “Are you ok?”

Gerard choked back on a humorless laugh. Even now, Frank’s concern was for him. “I’m fine.”

“I remember seeing you. You were terrified.”

“I’m fine,” Gerard repeated. “I wasn’t, but I am now. I’ve just been worried about you.”

“It’s just a knock on the head. I’ve been through worse.”

“No, that’s not it. They called the police, Frank. And the paramedics. They wheeled Beecher out of here on a stretcher.”

“Oh shit.”

“The police are talking to Master right now. I think they want to arrest you.”

“Ok, well let’s go downstairs and see what’s going on,” Frank said, already swinging his legs over the side of the bed.

“You can’t. There’s two people guarding the door. They’re right outside.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that they’re under strict orders not go let you go anywhere.”

“You’re kidding. They’ve got two people guarding me?”

“Well, yeah. You should have seen yourself. It was like you were like possessed or something.”

Frank rubbed at his head, grimacing when he touched the sore spot on his temple. “I just remember seeing him and being so pissed at everything he’s done to you. I guess I lost it.”

“Understatement of the year.”

“Frank. You’re awake.”

Gerard and Frank both whipped their heads toward the direction of the voice. They’d been so caught up in their conversation that they hadn’t even heard Sheridan come in.

Frank recovered quickly, pulling his hand from Gerard’s and using it to smooth out nonexistent wrinkles from his shirt. “Yes, sir.”

“You could have killed him, Frank.”

“I know. I’m only sorry that I didn’t.”

Sheridan closed the distance between them and struck Frank across the face with his open palm, the loud crack reverberating throughout the small room.

“Don’t say that. Do you realize what you’ve done?” He sat down on the bed, grabbing Frank’s upper arm with one hand. His other hand grabbed at Frank’s hair, using it like a lead to pull him close. “Do you?” he shouted.

Gerard eyes grew wide as he watched the color rising on Frank’s cheek from where he’d been hit. In all the time he’d been here, he’d never seen Sheridan act violently toward anyone. He hadn’t thought he had it in him. “Sir?” he said nervously, hoping to draw Sheridan’s attention from Frank and forestall any further violence.

Sheridan straightened at the sound of Gerard’s voice, taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly as if trying to release the anger. He relaxed his hold on Frank, although he didn’t release it altogether.

“The police were going to arrest you tonight,” he said, sounding marginally calmer. “I managed to talk them into letting me keep you until the morning on the condition that I turn you in myself. That’s the best I could do.”

“Arrest me?”

“But you can do something, right?” Gerard asked. “They’ll arrest him but you can bring him back, right?”

“I’m not all-powerful, Gerard,” Sheridan answered without even sparing him a glance, his focus on Frank alone. “Frank attacked a free man, in front of a dozen witnesses. He injured a free man in front of witnesses.”

“So what happens now?” Frank asked.

Sheridan sighed. He looked tired, haggard, his usual confidence gone. “You’ll go back to the prison and the district attorney will decide what to charge you with. If it’s assault, you’ll be summarily tortured under the guise of state sanctioned punishment and rehabilitation.”

“Oh my God,” Gerard breathed.

“If it’s attempted murder, you’ll be tortured until the time the state sees fit to put you down.”

“Put me down?” Frank asked, disbelief written across his face, saturating his tone.

“Execute you,” Sheridan clarified. “They’re going to kill you, Frank.”

“But I didn’t . . . ”

“This is what this society fears the most - dark-haired’s turning against their masters. They’re going to make an example of you.”

“No. Oh no.” Gerard jumped from the chair to the bed and pulled Frank out of Sheridan’s hold and into his own. This couldn’t be happening, not now, not after he and Frank had finally found each other, not when he was finally getting better.

He barely heard Sheridan excusing himself to leave, saying that he would give them some time alone but would return.

Voice shaking, Frank asked, “I really fucked up this time, huh?”

Gerard pulled away and began to smooth Frank’s hair back from his forehead. It was a strangely maternal gesture, one that he recalled from his childhood. “No. No, it’s going to be fine, you’ll see. Master’s going to fix this.”

He didn’t believe a word he was saying, and by the looks of it, neither did Frank. But he wasn’t ready to admit the truth. Right now, denial was all he had.

“It’s weird - I’m scared, but I’m kind of ready,” Frank said.

“Ready for what?”

“To die.”

Gerard recoiled, horrified at what he was hearing. “Frank, don’t even talk like that.”

“Why not? It’s the truth. I’m tired, Gerard. There’s a part of me that’s so tired of fighting. It’s a part of me that gets bigger every day.”

“Shut up. Don’t you say things like that.”

Frank turned away, shrugging. “I can’t help the way I feel.”

“No,” Gerard said, releasing his hold on him and standing up. He couldn’t just accept that Frank was going to die. There had to be something they could do - something their master could do.

“Where are you going?”

“I need to talk to him.”

“To who? Master? What good’s that going to do? You heard him.”

“I don’t know. But I’ve got to try.”

“Gerard, wait. Just stay with me. Please.”

Gerard stilled, looking at Frank, his eyes taking in the bruised face, the frightened plea in his eyes, his outstretched hand. He could go to him, offer comfort, but that would solve nothing. Frank would still be tortured. Frank would still die.

He shook his head, tore his gaze away. “I’m sorry, Frank.”

And with that, he was gone.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

It didn’t take Gerard long to track Sheridan down. He found him in his study, alone, surprisingly, and downing a huge glass of scotch.

Gerard stood at the threshold of the room and cleared his throat.

“Gerard, come in. I was wondering if I’d see you tonight.”

Gerard stepped inside. “I wanted to talk to you about Frank, sir.”

“Of course you do. What about him?”

He nodded. Sheridan wasn’t beating around the bush, neither would he. “I know you care about him and I know you don’t want this to happen to him. And I think there’s a way you can help him.”

“Go on.”

“You can let him go. I think you realize by now that he doesn’t belong here. You can drop him off on the highway by the woods. As long as the portal’s still open and he’s got enough time to find it, then he’s got a chance.”

“Gerard . . . ”

“Please, sir. Frank doesn’t deserve what’s about to happen to him.”

Sheridan rose and circled the desk, his eyes hooded, body predatory. “And what about you?”

Gerard resisted the urge to shrink away from the perceived danger, managing to hold his ground even when Sheridan moved to stand directly in front of him. “I’m not asking for me. I’m asking for him.”

“Really? So you would stay?”

He tilted his chin up, a show of confidence, even if it was feigned. “Yes, sir. If that’s what you wanted.”

“Hm.” Sheridan grabbed Gerard’s wrist, pulling him forward. Now that they were so close, the smell of alcohol on Sheridan’s breath was making his head spin. “And if do I let him go . . . you would take his place?”

“Take his place? I don’t know what you mean.” Gerard tried to pull his wrist free but Sheridan held strong.

“I’m talking about our deal.”

“I don’t know what you’re-”

“The one where he offered himself to me, in any way that I could possibly want him, if I left you alone.”

Gerard just stared at him, the words sinking in even as he tried to deny them. But there was no deceit in Sheridan’s eyes.

“You didn’t know, ” Sheridan said, a kernel of surprise creeping into this voice.

Shaking his head helplessly, Gerard muttered, “He didn’t . . . he never said . . . ”

The grip on his wrist turned vice-like as Sheridan’s lips brushed against his cheek. “The things I made him say. The things I made him do. They’d make any man blush. Would you be willing to do that? If I let him go?”

“If that’s what you wanted,” Gerard said, again lifting his chin and ignoring the rush of sickness and fear he felt at hearing those words. “But that’s not why you’re going to let him go.”

“Oh, no?”

Gerard jerked his wrist back, but continued to hold his ground. This was for Frank. He could be strong for Frank. “You’re going to let him go because you’re a decent man. And because you genuinely care for Frank. And because it’s the right thing to do. You know it is.”

“You seem very sure of yourself, Gerard.”

“No. I’m not. The only thing I’m sure of is that I can’t just sit back and watch this happen to him.”

Sheridan didn’t say anything for a long time, choosing instead to watch him closely, studying him. Gerard schooled his features into a placid mask and waited.

“I need to think about this,” Sheridan said finally, turning away from Gerard and effectively dismissing him.

“Sir, please. You can’t just stand back and let this happen.”

Sheridan turned his head, his features pinched together in anguish. “Do you think I wanted this?” he asked. “Do you think I want this to happen?”

“Then do something,” Gerard pleaded. “Do something.”

Sheridan hid his face away. “It’s not that easy. And you forget your place, Gerard.”

“I’m sorry, sir. It’s just that-”

“Just go back to him. He needs you.”

“But . . . ”

“Go, Gerard.”

“Yes, sir,” Gerard said, already starting to walk away. He knew that Sheridan was done listening and that anything more that he offered would only be an irritant. All he could do now was hope that Sheridan had it in his heart to set Frank free.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Back in their room, Frank was exactly where he had left him, huddled on the bed, his knees drawn up to his chest, his arms wrapped protectively around his middle.

Frank looked up. “Hey.”

“Hey.”

“So what happened?”

Gerard ignored the question, instead offering one of his own. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Tell you what?”

He stepped forward until he stood towering over Frank. “About your deal.”

“What deal? What are you . . . ?”

“The deal, Frank!” he shouted. “The deal! The one with Master!”

Frank didn’t get it at first, but soon the look of confusion gave way to one of understanding. “He told you?”

“He told me.”

“He wasn’t supposed to. I asked him not to.”

“The point is, Frank, why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because you didn’t need to know.”

Gerard sat down on the bed, grabbing Frank’s wrist as hard as his own had been grabbed earlier. He wanted to Frank to bruise, he wanted Frank to hurt, and he wasn’t even sure why. “Why would you do that? Why would you do something so fucking stupid?”

“Because you needed it, Gerard. Jesus, what was I supposed to do, sit back and watch you fall apart? You couldn’t handle his attention and that was the only thing I could think of to do.”

“So you became his personal whore?”

“It is not like that,” Frank spit out through gritted teeth. He tried to yank back his wrist, but Gerard only held on tighter.

“What’s it like then? What do you do for him?”

“That’s none of your fucking business.”

“It is my business! Tell me what you do. Tell me what you say.” He was shouting again, so angry that he could barely see straight. He couldn’t understand how Frank thought this was ok - this selling of his dignity for him.

“Why do you even care?” Frank asked, shouting too. “Why now, after all this time? Why do you even care?”

“Because you’re mine! You’re not his. You’re mine!”

The declaration surprised him almost as much as it did Frank, and for long seconds they merely sat there, gaping at one another. Gerard hadn’t meant to say that, he hadn’t even been aware that he’d been thinking it.

“I didn’t . . . I didn’t mean it like that. I don’t own you. I just . . . ” He said, letting the words trail off pathetically.

“I just wanted to help you,” Frank said in a small voice.

“Help me how? By selling yourself?”

“I didn’t s-”

“Yes, you did.”

“I just wanted to protect you,” Frank said, eyes downcast.

“That’s just it, Frank. You don’t have to protect me. I’m not a child.”

“I just wanted to help you,” he repeated, though it was hard to hear him now with his voice so hushed.

“Yeah, so you keep saying. And look where it’s gotten you. God, Frank. God.” Gerard’s voice broke on that last word and he fell forward, clutching and clawing at Frank, his hands moving over the other man’s body as if he couldn’t get enough, would never be able to touch enough, feel enough.

“Don’t be mad at me, please.” The plea, muffled against Gerard’s chest, was enough to take his breath away. He wanted to answer, to explain that the anger wasn’t directed at him, it was anger at this world, at the unfairness of it, the injustice of it, and the hatred and cruelty that had brought them to this. But he couldn’t speak, the words were like fleeting phantoms and his lungs seemed frozen.

Frank pulled away, just enough so he could gaze up at Gerard’s face. His eyes were wide, much too bright and a little wild. “Please, Gee. Don’t be mad.”

Gerard shook his head, gripping him all the tighter. “Not mad,” he managed to choke out despite the fierceness of the emotion that clogged his throat and crushed his chest. “Not mad. I love you. I just love you so much.”


	18. Chapter 18

Sheridan came for them nearly two hours later. He found them in bed, nearly asleep, their limbs entwined so that it was hard to tell where one man ended and the other began.

Gerard was the first to stir. “Sir?” he asked, voice roughened and eyes bleary.

“Gerard,” Sheridan said. “It’s time. I’m taking Frank.”

Frank sat up, rubbing at his eyes much like a small child would. “Gee?”

He sounded like a child too, so much so that Gerard was compelled to place his hands on Frank’s shoulders and draw him close, as if his body alone could offer protection against what was to come.

Gerard’s gaze drifted to where Sheridan stood, taking in the fact that he was not alone. A member of security was here, as well as Michael. “But you said we had until morning,” he said. He fought off the encroaching panic and despair, trying to sound firm rather than terrified. “It hasn’t been nearly that long.”

“I’ve decided it’s best just to do this now. There’s no reason to prolong the inevitable.”

Gerard felt Frank’s body stiffen against his own, heard a small whimper rush past his lips and he held him all the tighter. “But,” he started to say, prepared to beg now, although what he would beg for he didn’t know. More time? A reprieve? For this all to be a dream?

Sheridan leaned down, very close, cutting off Gerard’s view of everything but him. “Now is not the time to argue with me, Gerard,” he said, his tone cold and stern.

And then he winked at him.

Gerard stared after Sheridan as he straightened and walked away. He felt a little like Alice down the rabbit hole, unsure if he had truly seen what he thought he had. He turned to see if Frank had seen it too, but Frank’s head was pressed against the crook of his shoulder, his eyes closed. He had seen nothing.

No, he had seen it, and it could only mean one thing - that Sheridan intended to let Frank go. It was the only thing that it could mean. Gerard wouldn’t allow himself to believe otherwise.

“Hey,” he said, quietly speaking the words against the strands of Frank’s hair. “It’s going to be ok. Trust me.”

Frank looked up at him, uncomprehending, the fear in his eyes giving them a glazed, faraway look. Gerard touched his lips to Frank’s forehead. “Don’t be afraid.”

“Are you sure you don’t want one of us to go with you?” the guard, Nathan, was asking. He looked at Frank like one looks at a snake, uncertain if it will remain docile or strike.

“I’m positive,” Sheridan said. “I don’t need a crowd to take someone to the police station.”

“But he’s dangerous, sir.”

“Nathan, do you really believe that Frank would hurt me?”

“Up until tonight I would have said no. But I saw how he attacked that man. We all did.”

“But Frank would never hurt me.” Sheridan turned back toward them. His fingers took hold of Frank’s chin, lifting it so Frank would see only him. “Would you, Frankie?”

Solemnly, as if speaking a vow, Frank said, “No, sir. I would never hurt you.”

“See there? It’s fine.”

Nathan did not look convinced in the slightest. “At least let me put the handcuffs on him.”

Sheridan nodded, releasing his hold on Frank. “Fine, do that.”

Gerard watched in silence as Frank was pulled up by his elbow, then gently swung around so that his hands were behind his back. He watched as the metal cuffs encircled Frank’s wrists, closing with a click that sounded thunderously loud. Frank, for his part, stood quietly, pliant as a life-size doll. He seemed dazed, his eyes unfocused as if he didn’t know what was happening to him or where he was.

Sheridan slowly brought Frank around to face them. “Come on, Frank. It’s time.”

Frank nodded, a quick jerk of his head before turning back to Gerard. The lost, uncertain look was gone. His eyes were sharp now, filled with such pain that it was hard not to look away from it.

“Gee, I’m so sorry.”

“Shh . . . nothing to be sorry for.” Gerard held him as he said the words, one arm across his bound arms, the other cradling his head. He could feel Frank trembling against him, could feel his fear as if it were his own.

It was tempting to give in to the sense of loss and break down into tears, to claw at Frank’s body and refuse to let go. He pulled away, far enough to hold Frank’s face in his hands and look into his eyes. “I love you. I love you so much.”

“I love you too. I’m so sorry. God, I’m so sorry.”

Don’t be afraid, Frank. This isn’t how it ends.

The words were there, in his head and on the tip of his tongue, waiting to be voiced. He wanted to say them but he knew he could not. This was how it ended; right here in this room, surrounded by uncertainty and fear.

A moment later, Frank was torn away from him.

Gerard’s head swam and his knees buckled. He steadied himself against the bed, willing himself not to fall down, all the while cognizant that this was it. That this was the last time he would ever see Frank.

And then Sheridan, who had been moving toward the door, stopped and tipped his head to the side. And, as if the thought had just occurred to him, said, “Maybe Gerard should come too.”

“What? No,” Nathan said emphatically. “No.”

“They’re so close. It would give them more time together.”

Gerard would have kissed Sheridan if the other two men hadn’t been there.

“I am your head of security and as such, I can’t let you go alone with them,” Nathan said.

Sheridan started to respond, but Gerard had already tuned them out, ignoring them to give his full attention to Frank. Besides, it was a foregone conclusion that Sheridan would win this argument. Sheridan always won.

Several minutes later they were outside, standing next to one of Sheridan’s cars. Sheridan himself sat at the driver’s seat, while Gerard and Frank were told to go in the back. Gerard sat down then watched as Nathan placed a hand atop Frank’s head and guided him into the car.

Michael walked to Sheridan’s door, bending at the waist so that his face was level with the car’s open window. “Sir? Are you sure about this?”

“Michael . . . ”

“This could ruin you,” he whispered. “Think about it. Are you sure you want to do this?”

So Michael knew as well. And Michael was helping.

Sheridan’s eyes flicked up to the rearview mirror. Gerard caught his gaze, holding it for a brief second before it traveled to Frank. “I’m sure, Michael. I’m sure.”

And with that, they drove away.

Nobody spoke again until the mansion was a mere speck of light behind them.

“Get him out of those things, huh?” Sheridan said. He fished the keys to the handcuffs out of his pocket and tossed them to Gerard who caught them deftly.

“Yes, sir.”

Frank twisted his body to the side, presenting his bound hands to Gerard. It seemed to take forever in the dark, but he finally managed to unlock the cuffs, tossing them to the ground with a sound of disgust.

Frank turned back to face him, rubbing at his wrists absently. “What’s going on?”

Gerard hesitated, unsure of what his role here was supposed to be. “Can I tell him, sir?”

“Yes. Go ahead.”

“Tell me what? What’s going on?”

Gerard took a deep breath, eyes connecting with Sheridan’s in the mirror before breaking away to face Frank. “He’s letting you go, Frank.”

“He’s what?”

“Letting you go. Back to the woods so you can find the portal and get the fuck out of this place.” The words tasted bittersweet on his tongue, and he was struck by the urge to both laugh and cry.

“I don’t understand,” Frank said. “What about you?”

He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t be the one to tell Frank that he’d be going alone.

“Gerard. What about you?”

Gerard looked away. “We’ll discuss that when we get there, Frank.”

“Gerard?”

It was a little boy’s voice that he heard, bewildered and afraid. He turned back, stroking Frank’s cheek with one hand. “Shh . . . It will all make sense soon, I promise. Just be patient for a little while longer.”

Frank knocked Gerard’s hand away. “Just talk to me! Tell me what the fuck is going on!” He turned away with a growl of frustration and leaned forward, his fingers wrapping around the back of Sheridan’s seat. “Sir, please.”

“Gerard’s right.” Sheridan’s voice was calm, betraying nothing. “Let’s just wait until we get you there and then we’ll explain everything.”

“But sir . . . ”

“That’s enough, Frank.”

This time Sheridan’s voice was harsh, the words a command that couldn’t be ignored. Frank fell silent, slumping against the seat. Gerard found his hand in the gloom, clutched it, refused to let go even when Frank tried to pull it away.

It was all that he could think to do. All he could think to give.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Here?”

“No. A little farther down. I think. It’s dark now. I don’t know.”

“This is the old highway. Hardly anyone uses it anymore.”

Frank sat pressed against the car’s door, forehead against the window, staring out at the blackness beyond. The conversation that was going on around him seemed very far away, as if were coming through a very long tunnel. It was meaningless to him anyway. His mind was elsewhere.

Earlier this evening, he’d been near comatose with fear, trying to prepare himself for the fate that awaited him. Now he was being told that he would be set free and precious little else. He’d tried to get more information, to get someone to talk to him, but Sheridan had ordered him quiet and Gerard wouldn’t even look at him. Frank glanced down at the hand clasped tightly within his own. Gerard wouldn’t look at him, yet he held his hand in a death grip. He found it funny it a sick, ironic sort of way.

Frank thought he understood what was happening despite the silent treatment. They meant to send him home and for Gerard to stay. But that, he had already decided, was not going to happen. He would leave with Gerard or not at all.

The car rolling to a stop brought him from his thoughts. He looked around, trying to get his bearings, feeling like someone that had awakened from a deep sleep. He watched as Sheridan put the car in park, leaving the key in the ignition to keep it running.

“Gerard?”

He hadn’t expected a response, was surprised when Gerard turned his head to look at him at last.

“I love you, Frank.”

And just like that he was gone, pulling his hand away and sliding out of the car.

Frank opened his own door and got out, the cold feeling severe and sharp after the warmth of the car. He looked at the two of them, his friend and his master, standing opposite him and so near each other and he hated that he felt like the outsider here.

“Somebody, just tell me what’s going on.” He had meant for the words to sound forceful and stern, but instead they had come out as a plea, as if he were begging.

“It’s just like Gerard said. I’m letting you go,” Sheridan said. “You’ll have a few hours to find your portal and get back home. It’s the most I can give you.”

“But what about Gerard?”

“Gerard’s offered to stay here. To take your place with me.”

Suspecting it had been hard enough to deal with. Hearing it confirmed was so much worse. He watched in stunned silence as Gerard inched even closer to Sheridan, nodding at the ground, once again unable to look him in the eye.

“But he’s not going to,” Sheridan added. “He’s going with you.”

Gerard’s head shot up sharply. “What?”

Sheridan turned toward Gerard, ignoring Frank for the moment. “I can’t keep you here, Gerard. It wouldn’t be right. Frank needs you. And you need him.”

“But you said . . . our deal . . . ”

“A test. Nothing more. If you haven’t noticed, I’m a little fond of tests.”

“You mean this? We can both go?” Gerard asked.

“I mean it. You can both go.”

Gerard threw himself at Sheridan, arms so tight around his body that Sheridan had to struggle to take in a breath. “Thank you. Thank you so much. For this. For everything. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Sheridan brushed his fingers through Gerard’s long hair. “You’re very welcome, Gerard.”

Gerard whispered, “Thank you,” once more before stepping away, letting Sheridan’s attention fall to Frank.

Frank walked toward him, stopping when he was barely a foot away.

“I don’t know what to say,” he admitted. “I’ve dreamed about this for so long. Going home. And now that it’s happening, I don’t even know what to say.”

Sheridan shook his head, a sad smile playing on his lips. “I’ve known for a while now - that you didn’t belong here. But I didn’t want to let you go. I was so selfish. Even tonight, if Gerard hadn’t come to me, asked me for this, I don’t know that I would have done it.”

The lump forming in Frank's throat was making it hard to speak. “You’re doing it now. That’s what matters.”

Sheridan placed his hand against Frank's cheek and it felt like fire. “I asked you once, if I had broken you. You said no. Were you lying?”

Frank shook his head, searching for the answer to one of the most complicated questions he’d ever been asked. “I . . .”

Sheridan took the hesitation as a yes. “You must hate me. For all I’ve done to you.”

“I don’t . . . I don’t hate you.”

“How can you say that? After what I did to you?”

“Because you did the best you knew how. I know that.”

“Yes, maybe . . . I don’t know.” He smiled ruefully. “I just don’t know.”

Of his own volition, Frank edged closer, tilting his head back to invite a kiss. It was brief and gentle, and Frank was both surprised and relieved that it stirred no feelings within him whatsoever. He ran his tongue along his lips, tasting the kiss, sealing it to memory - his last one ever with this man. Then he whispered, “I’m not broken, Jack.”

“You don’t know how much I hope that that’s true.”

Frank withdrew from Sheridan’s embrace, moving toward the warmth of Gerard’s body. He stretched out his hand, fingers seeking and finding Gerard’s, their hands intertwining.

“There is one more thing we have to do before I can let you go.”

It was Gerard who answered for them. “Yes, sir?”

“You have to hit me.”

“What?”

“They’ll never believe that you overpowered me and escaped if there isn’t some sort of proof. The whole story’s suspicious enough as it is.”

Frank shook his head. “I can’t do. I can’t hit you.”

“You have to.”

“I can’t, Jack.”

“I’ll do it,” Gerard said, stepping forward.

“Good.” Sheridan nodded. “Good.”

It was over within seconds - Gerard’s fist lashed out, catching Sheridan on his lower jaw and sending him tumbling to the ground.

Gerard bent down, hands outstretched. “Sir, I’m sorry!” he cried. Frank couldn’t help but smile at the sight. Gerard was one of the gentlest people he knew and that had not changed. Despite everything that had been done to him, that had not changed.

Sheridan rubbed at his jaw, waving off Gerard’s concern with a muffled, “I’m fine.”

“I hit you too hard.”

“Gerard, I’m fine. Look, there’s a flashlight on the passenger seat of the car. Take it and go. Michael will hold off sounding the alarm for as long as he can, but you still don’t have much time.”

Gerard rushed to the car and snatched the flashlight, turning it on before running back to Frank. They were about to walk away when Frank stopped, running back over to where Sheridan still lay on the ground.

“Thank you.”

“I’ll never forget you, Frankie. Ever.”

Frank had not lied earlier. He did not hate Jack Sheridan. His feelings for the man might be murky and elusive, but he did know that hatred did not enter into the picture. He took one last, lingering look at him, the man he had shared so much with, the man who was setting them free. “Good bye, Jack.”

And then he was gone, back to Gerard and into the woods.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

They had barely taken a few steps before Frank came to a sudden stop.

“Frank, what–”

“Tell me I’m not dreaming. Please tell me this is really happening.”

“I know. I almost can’t believe it either. But it’s happening, Frank. I promise.”

“You were really going to stay?” Frank asked. “You were really going to do that for me?”

“Of course I was.”

“You shouldn’t have. You shouldn’t have even offered. To put yourself through that for me . . . ”

“And yet you did it for me.”

“That’s different.”

“Is it?”

“Of course it is, you idiot!”

Gerard placed his hands on either side of Frank’s face, bringing him forward for a quick, hard kiss. “I did it because I love you. The same reason you did it for me.” He moved away, grabbing Frank’s hand and pulling him along. “Now, come on. We don’t have much time.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

They’d been walking for what felt like hours. Both were exhausted and hungry, feeling the night air’s chill right down to their very bones.

Walking over to a large tree, Frank slumped against it and rubbed at his eyes. “Gerard, let’s face it. We’re not going to find it. It’s over.”

“It’s not over, all right? It’s not over.”

“If we haven’t found it by now, we’re not going to.”

“Look,” Gerard said, pointing ahead of them with the flashlight. “Right through those trees there. Doesn’t that look familiar?”

“Yeah, it does, but . . . it was almost a year ago. All of it looks familiar. All of it looks the same.”

“No, Frank. I really think that’s it.”

“Gerard, we’ve walked through here twice already. We’re going in circles. It’s not here.”

“Think about it - the portal can’t always be open, otherwise the guys would have stumbled through it when they came looking for us.”

“Even if that’s true, it doesn’t matter. The portal could be anywhere. We’ll never find it.”

“No, it’s right through there. I’m sure of it.”

“Fuck it, Gerard. It’s over, ok? Game fucking over.”

“It is not fucking over! It isn’t! I’m not going back there and neither are you! Do you hear me? Neither one of us is going back there!”

“Ok, ok. We’ll walk over there. All right?”

It wasn’t the shouting that spurned Frank to move, it was the desperation in Gerard’s voice, the kernel of madness in it. It was obvious that Gerard wasn’t ready to accept the fact that they had lost. He wouldn’t accept it until the bitter end, when they came for them and dragged them both kicking and screaming to an unthinkable fate.

Frank shook his head, angry at himself for being so stupid, for actually believing that this could work. He should have just stayed and accepted his punishment.

Now he had doomed them both.

And yet he continued to walk, following the path illuminated by the flashlight, not because he wanted to, but because Gerard needed him to.

Up ahead of him, Gerard had stopped, turning the flashlight in a high arc, as if he were searching for something in the trees. “Do you feel that?” he asked.

Frank wasn’t sure whether or not to lie. He’d long since stopped feeling anything at all, his body going numb from the cold.

“No, Frank,” Gerard said, swinging around to face him. “Do you feel that?”

Frank didn’t need to see Gerard’s face to know that his eyes were lit up with excitement. He sighed and stilled, trying hard to feel whatever it was Gerard had.

And then, just seconds later, he did. A prickling at his skin, as if the very air around him were alive. “Gerard?” he whispered, afraid that anything louder would stop what was happening.

“I know. We have to go. Now.”

He ran toward Gerard, covering the distance between them in just a few seconds. They held hands and walked forward, the prickling sensation increasing until it felt almost unbearable. This was it. After so long, after they had both given up hope, they were going home again.

Frank gave Gerard’s hand one tight squeeze before the white light engulfed them and they felt that familiar pulling within their bodies, the shifting of themselves and reality.

And then they were back.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

They’d been walking along the side of the highway, the flashlight still clutched tight in Gerard’s hand despite it no longer being needed. The sun had crested on the horizon only minutes before and the world felt dewy and fresh and new.

They had stopped trying to wave anybody down after the first thirty or so cars had passed them by, the drivers barely slowing down. Not that Frank or Gerard blamed them. They were very aware that they looked like hell.

Now they simply trudged along, sheer willpower moving them forward when every inch of their bodies screamed at them to curl up on the ground and never get up again.

Then they heard it, the sound of a car pulling to a stop behind them.

They turned, saw that it was a police car and that the officer was already stepping out. A dark-haired police officer. And a woman to boot. They both relaxed, identical grins plastered across their faces.

The officer approached them, her face wary, one hand on her weapon.

“You two all right?” she asked.

Frank and Gerard looked at each other for a moment, trying to find the right words for something so momentous.

Finally, Gerard took a step forward, his hand never leaving Frank’s.

“My name’s Gerard. This is Frank. We’ve been . . . we’ve been lost, for a very long time. And now we just want to go home.”


	19. Chapter 19

The police officer eventually took Frank and Gerard to the hospital where they were treated for a mild case of hypothermia.

Their families came to them soon after and they both wept as they embraced people they thought lost to them forever.

Afterward, they would find it ironic that something as wonderful as the arrival of their loved ones would also herald the three-ring circus that so often accompanies fame.

It began with the police. Detectives that wanted to know exactly where they had been for nearly a year’s time. Frank had been at a loss, his thought processes short-circuiting under the intense scrutiny. Gerard, however, hadn’t even blinked an eye. He’d lain back in his hospital bed, weaving out of thin air a tale of psychotic kidnappers and brutal cults with frightening ease.

It was a ludicrous story really, but the scars on Gerard’s body attested to just the sort of physical abuse that he’d described.

In the end, the police had no choice but to waste their time trying to track down perpetrators that didn’t exist.

Why did you tell them that? Why couldn’t you have just said that we ran away or something?

Frank had been angry when he’d asked the question. He hated the thought that people would see him as a victim.

Gerard had stared at him, calm but sad. Resolute.

Because they wouldn’t have believed any other lie.

The answer had done nothing to quell the anger, not at first. But Frank had accepted it as time passed and soon enough it was forgotten.

I can’t lie to everybody. I need for somebody to understand what’s happened to us.

Gerard had whispered the words to Frank shortly after their release from the hospital and Frank had agreed. It was mutual, neither could bear to have their parents know what had really happened to them, but days later they gathered Jamia, their bandmates and some of their closest friends and told them the truth.

Guys, Gerard and I need to tell you what really happened...

Mikey had believed them without question. He had gone to them, and held them, crying with them and for them. With the others it had been more difficult. They were skeptical, although not cruel. Neither Frank nor Gerard cared much either way. They had told the truth, they had said their peace and they knew that the others would come to believe them in time.

They let Brian and the record company deal with the press, leaving it up to them as to what the world would be told.

At first the reaction was one of near pandemonium, with the fans and press alike shadowing their every move, their wild speculations fueling what amounted to a ravenous insanity. They hid from the attention, waiting it out, knowing that everyone would move on eventually, that they would find more exciting news items to latch onto.

As the weeks passed and the fervor over their reappearance died down, they began to settle into something that resembled a life. Frank with Jamia. Gerard at first with his parents and then alone.

And now, nearly four months after they’d broken back into their own world, Frank sat in his car, chewing on the nail of his index finger, staring at the outside of Gerard’s house.

He was nervous, inordinately so, and his fingers itched to hold a cigarette even though his body no longer craved the chemicals. He considered the fact that he had stopped smoking one of the few positive things that had come out of their time in the other world. He would be damned if he would start the habit again.

The other positive thing of course, was his relationship with the man who lived inside the house he was watching. A man who by now, must be wondering where the hell he was. He had told Gerard he would be over in ten minutes.

That had been over forty minutes ago.

He slid out of the car with a sigh. He knew he couldn’t stay out here much longer. Besides, he had practiced what he would say to Gerard ad nauseam. If he wasn’t ready now, he never would be.

He walked to the front door and rang the doorbell, smiling at the crazed barking he could hear coming from inside.

The first thing he saw when the door opened was Gerard’s new dog, growling at him as if it wanted to rip his throat out. “Hey, Max,” he said, smiling sweetly at the snarling monstrosity.

“Max, stop it. Frank’s our friend. Max! Max, go outside! Go outside now!”

Frank watched as the dog reluctantly obeyed, still casting evil glances at him even as it skulked out through the dog door. “Man, you should have gotten a Pekinese or something,” he said, finally lifting his eyes away from the dog to Gerard.

What he saw caused him to freeze, eyes widening and jaw dropping in shock. “Holy shit!”

Gerard’s beautiful, long dark hair was all but gone. The little that was left was styled in a buzz cut, shorter even than military regulation.

“What?” Gerard asked, looking around. He realized what Frank was staring at a split second later. He touched the top of his head, blushing. “Do you hate it?”

“No. I don’t hate it,” Frank said, lying only a little. “It’s just...it’s a really big change.”

Gerard stepped aside to let Frank enter. “Yeah, I know,” he said. “I just got it done yesterday. I’m still getting used to it.”

Gerard led them to the kitchen table, where they each took a seat opposite the other, and Frank promptly resumed staring. He knew it was probably rude, but he couldn’t seem to stop. The feminine quality of Gerard’s face was still there, but it was muted. There was a hard aspect to it now, something far beyond even what the short, blond haircut had given him. “So, you did this...why?” he asked.

Shrugging one shoulder, Gerard muttered a vague, “I don’t know.”

“It’s because of Beecher, isn’t it?”

Gerard looked down, as if he were speaking to the table top instead of Frank. “He used to grab my hair and use it to pull me to him.”

Every so often, Frank would regret not killing Beecher when he had the chance. This was one of those times. “Beecher’s not here anymore, Gee,” he said, somehow managing to keep the anger out of his voice.

The gaze that met his was direct, piercing. “Doesn’t matter. The point is I’m never letting anyone hurt me like that again. Ever.”

Frank glanced around the room, taking in the new weight bench in the corner. It, the dog, the haircut - all of them added up to the same thing. The scars that the other world had inflicted on Gerard ran deep, maybe deeper than either one of them suspected.

“Anyway,” Gerard said, dismissing the conversation with a wave of his hand. “I’m glad you’re here. I’ve missed you.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I got used to having you around all the time. It’s been weird sleeping in a bed by myself.”

“I know. I’ve missed you too. A lot.”

They both reached for each other at the same time, joining hands across the table, and it felt more right than anything had in months.

“Still adjusting ok?” Gerard asked.

“No, not really,” Frank admitted. “I think I’m getting worse. I don’t sleep very well at night. Nightmares. Mostly though, I’ve got this thing where I don’t like being touched.”

“Not even by Jamia?”

The question was asked tentatively, as if Gerard were afraid of the answer.

“Not even her. Which is weird because she’s a girl. There should be nothing about her that reminds me of Jack. But I still can’t handle it. Pretty fucked up, huh?”

“No,” Gerard shook his head. “No, I totally get it.”

“Well, she doesn’t. I mean, she’s trying to, but...she doesn’t really.”

“I’m sorry.”

Frank tried for a smile but failed. He shook his head, embarrassed at feeling the familiar sting of tears. He blinked, managing to keep them from falling. “How about you? You doing ok?”

“I don’t know, man. I’m all over the place. Nightmares, panic attacks, days I don’t even want to get out of bed... Mostly though I’m angry. Like, I’m just pissed off all the time.”

“That doesn’t sound like you.”

Gerard shrugged. “I was like that when I was younger. So angry. Sometimes, I have these fantasies where I go back to that place, find Beecher and kill him. Just fucking rip him to shreds.”

“Well, considering what he put you through, I’d say that’s pretty normal.”

“Yeah, I don’t know. I don’t know what’s normal anymore.” He straightened, shaking his head as if to clear it of that last violent thought. “But, you didn’t come here to hear all that.”

“I don’t mind.”

“No, you said you wanted to talk to me about something.”

“Oh yeah. That.”

“Yeah. So what is it?”

And here it was, the moment of truth. Frank opened his mouth to recite the speech that he’d been practicing for days...only to find it lost to him. All those words, those beautiful words he had spent so long agonizing over, choosing each one so carefully, were gone as if they’d never existed. He rubbed his face with his hands, orienting himself as he realized that he was going to have to wing it. “I’m just going to come out and say it, ok?”

“Sure.”

He inhaled deeply, letting the exhale escape as a rush of nearly unintelligible words. “What you and I had, back in that place. I want that back.”

Gerard didn’t even look surprised. “Do you?”

“Yeah, I do. The thing is - I changed so much when I was there. I’m not the same person I used to be a year ago. And now I’m back here and I just feel...wrong, you know? And it’s not just Jamia. It’s everything. I feel like I don’t fit with anything here.”

“Frank-”

“But,” he said, not letting Gerard finish. “I think I might fit with you.”

Gerard pulled his hands away and ran them through his non-existent hair. “Jesus. Fuck.”

“Ok, not the reaction I was hoping for.”

“What did you expect me to say? I mean, look at us, Frank. We’re both so monumentally fucked up. How do we make it work?” He coughed out a laugh. “We’re not even gay.”

“Your friendship is the one thing I won’t jeopardize, Gee. If you can look me in the eye and tell me that you don’t want this, that you don’t feel the same way, then I’ll back off.”

“Jesus.”

“So, come on. Tell me. Tell me you don’t want this.”

“God, you know I can’t do that. You know I can’t.”

“So, it’s good then.”

“No, it’s not. Why do you have to make things so hard, Frank?”

“Why is this hard?”

Frank watched, dismayed, as Gerard sprang up from the chair and began to pace the length of the kitchen. He hadn’t expected Gerard to jump onto his lap and declare eternal love but he hadn’t quite expected this near-frantic anger either.

“I go to bed every night and I think about you,” Gerard said. He was talking with his hands, using them to punctuate his words. “I think about you being with her, wrapped around her, when it should be me. When I’m the one who needs you, not her.”

“So, I’m here,” Frank said, spreading out his arms. “And I want to be with you. So what’s the problem?”

“Because this isn’t some fantasy world, Frank. This is reality. How the hell are we supposed to pull this off?”

“But how do we know if we don’t even try? I mean, look at what we’ve already survived. If we can do that, we can do anything.”

Gerard didn’t answer.

“Gerard, I love you. I am in love with you. But I am not forcing this on you. I told you - if you don’t want this, say the word. That’s all you gotta do.”

Gerard placed his hands on his hips and stopped, head bowed. It was a feminine gesture, contrasting wildly with Gerard’s harsh, new haircut.

Frank waited, giving him the time to process, to think things through. After all, he himself had had months to get used to the idea that this was what he wanted. He could afford to give Gerard as much time as he needed.

Several minutes passed before Gerard finally took slow, measured steps back to the table. He sat down in the chair and took hold of Frank’s hands, staring at them as if mesmerized by them. Frank stared at them as well, heart lodged in his throat as he waited for Gerard’s decision.

Then Gerard’s nimble fingers moved, plucking the gold band from Frank’s finger, the same band that Jamia had bought him only weeks ago to replace the one left behind in the other world.

Gerard set the ring down on the edge of the table without sparing it a second glance.

He raised Frank’s hand to his lips, turning it over so he could place a kiss against the palm. “I love you too. I may be crazy, but the word is stay. I want you to stay.”


End file.
